


Wonderland

by notenuffcaffeine, technologykilledreality



Series: Rule 42 [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry Allen Goes to Iron Heights, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bisexual Barry Allen, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, Everybody lies, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Misunderstandings, POV Barry Allen, Prison, Prison Sex, Protective Oliver, Threats of Violence, coldflash - Freeform, prison riots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/notenuffcaffeine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/technologykilledreality/pseuds/technologykilledreality
Summary: When Barry went unofficially undercover as a thief to help Leonard and Lisa Snart handle their crazy father, he wasn't expecting their family drama to drag him to jail. Now he finds himself stuck serving time, waiting for a court date and trying to stay alive without risking his identity as the Flash. Everything is upside down for Barry in Iron Heights when he can't use his speed and has to rely on Leonard Snart for backup behind bars.--An alternate ending to s2e3 Family of Rogues, as dreamed up by technologykilledreality and RedHead over on tumblr. Their discussion was basically an outline, and I just couldn't leave this story unwritten. 0:)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedHead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHead/gifts).



So far, things had gone smoothly. It was going to cut it a little close, but Barry had faith in his team. They were running out of time, though. He could feel it. Something was off with Snart.

“Got it!” came Cisco’s triumphant yelp through the phone and, as he was supposed to be dead, Barry had to fight the urge to smile; it wasn't exactly that he was glad that they were helping the bad guys be, frankly, really bad guys, but it was nice when his gut instinct predicted wins for the _good_ guys. Still, he stood from his faked death on the floor - _he deserved an Oscar for that death scene, he really did_ \- and paused to be sure Snart would behave himself long enough for Barry to suit up and get back as the Flash. He moved to keep the vault door from closing, not wanting to bother with the code when he got back, and peeked into the chamber.

He could hear the Snarts growling at each other clearly. The younger had no love lost on the elder, Barry was certain. After hearing Lisa’s story and watching them interact, he understood. Leonard wasn't actually the monster his father wanted him to be; maybe the man had landed in a life he didn't belong. Barry was sure there had to be some good in the man.

And that was how his curiosity got the best of him.

Things went sideways suddenly. Just as he was about to call off the heist, do some quick-change Flash-magic and put the Snart Family Business Plan in prison before Leonard could put it on ice, Barry got a shot in the spine of over-amped electricity. Stun gun. Deadshot to the back of his unprotected neck. It validated the need for body armor over all the right places. But Barry Allen, _the Fastest Man Alive_ , was literally seconds too slow on his decision to suit-up.

Tasers did hurt, they definitely didn't feel good, even with his faster metabolism and healing. It spazzed his hand and he dropped the phone, losing his still celebrating team at S.T.A.R. Labs. And Barry learned the hard way that when over-amped at just the right frequency, so close to the spine, tasers did a bit of a number on even a speedster’s central nervous system. He hit the ground like an ungraceful sack of potatoes and let out an embarrassing grunt. It distracted Leonard and Lewis from the family squabble that had been brewing. The younger Snart tilted his head, eyebrows raised in obvious surprise as he looked over at Barry. _Down_ at Barry, to be more precise. _That_ was embarrassing.

“What the hell is this-” Lewis’ disapproval was interrupted by a nervous shout down the short hall behind Barry. An officer stood at the propped open vault door, weapon trained on Barry as his partner advanced to take on the Snart duo.

“Freeze! CCPD! You’re under arrest!”

_That_ wasn’t good. Barry reached to get his arms to cooperate, at least put his arms out so he didn’t get shot in the back before he could be recognized. All he managed was an awkward flail at lifting his arms that knocked his cell phone further out of reach. He definitely had to get somebody moving on that suit-ring theory a lot faster. This situation was not going to end well. His phone got stomped beneath a boot, a bad sign if that was any indication of the outcome.

Amidst the distraction offered by the stampede of boots down the hall, and the sudden presence of an officer handcuffing Barry’s twitching arms behind his back, the sound of Snart’s cold gun entered the noisy fray. _Super_ great.

Barry had to worry about the officer crouched and kneeling on his back to keep him down as well as wonder who it was that had been shot. Someone was groaning and complaining and it sounded like Lewis. Officers voices barked orders to _DROP IT!_ And _HANDS!_ And _DON’T MOVE!_ while somebody was on the radio calling for the EMTs. It was chaos.

Barry had seen some active scenes in his career so far, as a CSI and as the Flash, so he stayed still and followed orders. By the time the officer got him to his feet, Leonard Snart was on the ground in handcuffs, being searched for more weapons, and his not-so-dearly undeparted father was on the ground bitching about the pain in his arm. Barry stared, slack jawed, as the officers let in the EMTs to start care on their very injured suspect. He looked to the younger Snart as the officer got him to his feet to read off his rights.

“What the... what did you do? We had it handled- she was in the clear...” Barry said without thinking. He was shocked that Leonard had so obviously shot his own father, but perhaps more shocked that the man had apparently missed with his usual fatal aim.

“It was an accident,” drawled Snart. Barry knew a few things about Snart, and _sometimes_ he could tell when the man lied. _That_ was a definite lie. “The officers surprised me.”

“Crap...” Snart’s _accident_ definitely added to the charge count. He needed to get himself sorted out of everything Snart-adjacent and fast. He looked around for the nearest familiar officer.

“Look,” Barry said to the beat cop holding his arm. “Can I speak to the scene command-”

“You!” howled Lewis. The EMTs had him on a stretcher and it popped up so he was a little closer to Barry’s level again. He was handcuffed to the support bar on one side as the EMTs worked on securing and stabilizing his frozen shoulder. All the same, he tried to point at Barry. “You are _DEAD!_ This is on you! You! Will regret _crossing me_ -”

“Aww, lay off him, _Pops_ ,” said Leonard, a dangerous smirk on his face. “He was just trying to help.”

Barry straightened up, worried at the implications of the men’s words. The cops around them were taking notes and the whole thing was getting dangerously layered in lies Barry was going to have a hard time talking his way out of.

“Woah! Wait! I didn't-”

“Tell it to your lawyer, Allen,” came a somewhat familiar voice. Barry turned to see Detective Johnson walking up. The look on his face said he had heard it. “And you’ll probably need to explain a few things to the Chief while you're at it.”

“This is sooo not what it looks like,” Barry started.

“Right,” added Snart, with more than enough sarcasm. He looked far too amused with himself. Barry scowled at him as the officers escorted the other two out ahead, Lewis still shouting threats and obscenities at Barry’s alter-ego “Sam” and the general existence of the police force world wide. Barry looked again to the detective.

“I’m serious, man. There is a perfectly acceptable explanation for all of this,” he said. “It is really not what it looks like.”

The way Detective Johnson squinted at him made Barry fairly confident that the man didn't believe him. “It better. Because it's not looking so good from where I'm standing.”

“I promise- just- let me-”

“Nope. I’m not talking to you without your lawyer, Allen. We do this by the book. _No_ favors,” said Johnson. It wasn’t Barry’s best moment. He couldn't find words. The officer started him walking out to the waiting cruiser and Barry still couldn't figure out how to defend himself from how the scene looked. It didn't help at all that he got put in the same back seat with Leonard Snart. The man just stared at him, that dark, gloating grin on his face.

“Did you plan this or something?” Barry asked.

“Hardly,” replied Snart. “But I work with what I get.”

 

******

 

“You know,” Barry announced, to no one in particular, slumped over the table and talking into his arm. “This was _not_ how I saw my day going when I woke up this morning.”

“Tell me about it,” grumbled Joe West. The detective was there to lecture Barry for the Bad Idea - _emphasis on the capital letters_ \- that had brought them to standing in an interrogation room rather than at home with a beer and pizza. Well, Joe was standing. Barry was sitting. To make it better, Barry was sitting because he was handcuffed to a table. Because he was a suspect in a crime. He was one of exactly three suspects, one of whom had quite literally - _not figuratively_ \- been caught holding the bag of stolen gems.

There really wasn't anything for Joe to say. It was an open and shut case. Barry was a cop, he knew the rules, he even knew a few _laws_ , - like the kind of things a cop wasn’t supposed to _break_ \- and anything Joe had to say about it would be completely redundant. He had gotten about three words into the lecture before Barry had taken it over for him to save his blood pressure. It seemed to work to get the anger out of Joe’s system without him actually raising his voice at his adopted son in a monitored and recorded police interrogation room. That just left the awkward quiet of Barry sharing space with his foster dad who deserved answers with no lawyer in sight.

“I promise, Joe. This isn't what it looks like. It's not... it’s not _bad_...” But it wasn't enough and Barry knew it. He couldn't even tell Joe to talk to Cisco and Caitlin because the room was monitored. “When Laurel gets here, I swear.”

“I really don't see how that helps anything, Baer. If it was really nothing, you could tell me,” Joe said. “Here and now and on the record.”

Barry nodded. He tried to wave toward the door and the general direction of Detective Johnson but the handcuffs left him a little limited on it. It turned into a pitiful kind of shrug and flutter and Barry sighed. “He said by the book, no favors. No appearance of favors, Joe. You’re my dad but you’re still a cop...”

Joe looked a bit like he wanted to wring Barry’s neck but he refrained, nodded. “Fine. So in the meantime, I’m supposed to believe a couple of criminals over you, because I'm a cop.”

Barry blinked at him. “Wha- no? What?”

“Snart’s dad is in there calling you ten kinds of traitor and half of it I know are lies. The other half I can't defend you from because I don't know where you've been, son. I’m not part of this. I can't help-”

“I know, it’s Johnson’s case-”

“And Johnson’s got their word against yours, Barry. The video at the vault is dead. We don't know how _that_ happened. But that says nothing good. And _you_ won't say anything until your lawyer gets here. And your lawyer lives what, six _hundred_ miles away? Shouldn't take _her_ long to get here at all. _By train_.”

Barry stared, mouth hanging open in shocked silence. “The tapes are dead? wha-”

Joe nodded. “Wiped. Erased. Nada.”

“Wow...” Barry put his chin in his hands, staring at the wall. That put him in a bit of a situation. Lewis had shot him, the tapes would have shown that. It would have been a risk to Barry as the Flash, so he figured Cisco was behind the disappearance. It would also be hard to explain as Barry Allen, unofficially undercover and escaped lab-tech, how exactly he had managed to dodge a bullet from a known killer. He couldn't have explained that away either, so even the tapes wouldn't have helped. “Crap.”

Joe nodded, annoyed expression reinforcing exactly how much of an understatement that was. “Yeah. A great big steaming pile of it.”

Barry slumped over and slowly thumped his forehead against the table. He was so screwed.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

Laurel Lance didn't show up that night. There was some stupid snag with the train system, she had a case first thing in the morning, and Barry was going to have to wait until she could fly in the next day. Thankfully she could pull a few strings on the flight so it was a scheduled appointment, on the books with Detective Johnson, and there would be no problem with keeping her as his attorney. Barry kind of needed to have Laurel represent him as it would short-cut a few Flash-shaped holes in his story.

The downside was that it left Barry Allen, CCPD CSI, in his own lock-up while he waited. They processed the charges without his input of anything other than the statement that he was innocent and it was complicated. Compared to both of the Snarts happily reporting that Barry had helped them, _and_ the fact that Barry’s face was on security footage in other parts of the building with the two criminals, _and_ his fingerprints were on the vault key pad, Barry’s insistence of innocence didn't mean much. The presumption of guilt was rather built-in with the company he kept and the Snarts’ lawyers didn't really have a chance at keeping them out of jail. So after some six hours sitting on his own in an interrogation room with only his dad’s guilt trips for company, Barry still didn't get to go home.

He had to go through processing. He got stuffed in a little corner cell in the basement of the CCPD building. With a roommate. A cranky one. Who looked a lot like Leonard Snart.

“Oh, this is great,” said Barry as he stepped inside. It was late. Snart had already claimed the lower bunk. The man raised an eyebrow at him.

“ _This_ is unexpected,” he said. Barry huffed an unamused laugh.

“Right,” said Barry. He leaned against the wall opposite the bunk and slouched. “Because you _expected_ they’d let me walk after you and your father both told them I had helped you.”

Snart sat up, swung his legs off the edge to sit facing Barry. “Well... you did.”

Barry narrowed his eyes at the ungrateful mastermind. “No, I helped your _sister_. Remember that part? Where your sister needed help, and I said I’d come through for you, and I _did_?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you came to me to join the _team_ ,” replied Snart.

It figured. It just figured. Barry shook his head. He knew a losing battle when he saw one.

“You know what. _Fine_. Whatever,” he said, dismissing it for the sake of his sanity. He had all day to stew it over and it still got around to his screw up, he had put too much trust in a criminal. It was something he was stupidly good at. He just had to move on and salvage what he could of his life. “But we had a deal. On the _other thing_. This doesn't absolve you from that.”

Leonard feigned confusion. “Other- ohh... you mean our speedster friend?”

“Yes...”

“Do you think it would get me a _Get Out of Jail Free_ pass?”

“I can _guarantee_ _you_ that it won't right now,” replied Barry. “You’ve run my name into the ground with the department already.”

Leonard leaned forward a bit, eye to eye with Barry where he had slouched to the floor. “Then why would I waste what I know on _this_ , now, if there's nothing in it for me?”

“That's... creepy, but fair. I’ll take it,” said Barry, reluctantly. He met the man’s cold stare evenly. “But you know it's wrong to drag me down with you on this. We saved your sister.”

“What, so I owe you? For her?” asked Snart. Barry caught himself before he nodded.

“Not exactly, but-”

“Fine. You want favors then? If this goes south, _if_ you don't get to go right on back to your happy little double life tomorrow, look me up in Iron Heights. We can look out for _each other_ in the _yard_ ,” said Snart. His tone had changed, less gloating, more anger. “I had a clear record before this, remember? Life isn't _fair_. But you’re too important for this to touch you, Barry Allen. You've got connections. _You’ll_ be fine. So please. _Shut. Up_. About your problems. Some of us were trying to sleep.”

That... was probably not supposed to have hit Barry quite like it had. The point probably hadn't been that Leonard Snart thought that Barry Allen was somehow _important_. It was probably more about how the man wanted to sleep. But still... somehow Barry had made an impression on mean ol’ Captain Cold. He had just witnessed actual emotion. There was a real person in there.

“Right.” Barry had to work to get his words back. He was more surprised than anything. He didn't know what to do with this new information. So he did what he knew best; run away. Sure, he was surrounded by bars and cement walls but there was a whole extra bunk that would let him stare at the ceiling instead of deal with Snart. So that's what he did. Barry stood up, scrubbed at the back of his neck and then his face, paced a few steps, and jumped up onto the rickety old metal cot. The springs bounced and squeaked. He cringed.

“Sorry! About the... noise.”

Below him, he could practically hear Snart’s eyes rolling in his head. But the man didn't say anything after that. It was silent. The entire holding area, with its rows of barred off boxes, was ridiculously empty because they had already done a transport to Iron Heights that day. He could have heard a pin drop if there was anyone else in the room to drop one.

Barry realized then that it didn't say anything good for his chances with the department that, with all the choices they had in overnight holding cells, they chose to stick him in with the known murderer. It likely had more to do with wanting to sneak confessions or something than wishing Barry dead overnight, but the possibility still existed. There were many reasons Barry didn't sleep well that night, but worrying about Snart killing him in his sleep actually wasn't one of them.

 

*****

 

“I mean, does it help at all that I got tazed in the neck?” Barry asked. He was pulling at straws and he knew it. “Technically, people have died from stun guns - in some specific cases anyway - which could qualify them as lethal force... and I was just standing up when he shot me in the back... for all he knew, he was shooting a hostage...”

Laurel was not impressed by the logic reach, based on the crossed arms and the arched eyebrow. “So if I'm hearing you right, you want to try to clear your name by going after your own police department on _their_ improper response to _your_ actual _criminal_ activity.”

Barry scrunched his nose. “Yeah... that was one of those things that sounded way better in my head.”

Laurel nodded to encourage the realigned priorities. “Uh huh. So. Care to try again?”

“It's complicated-”

“Yes, I understand,” said Laurel. Her tone indicated more sarcasm than understanding but she was at least trying. “But unfortunately we are talking about criminal charges that come with _jail time_ , not a Facebook status. So I’m _gonna_ need a little more than _complicated_.”

Caught off guard by the workings of his own brain, Barry blinked at her. What did helping Leonard Snart have to do with a Facebook status? He felt like an idiot when he realized what he had somehow missed and thankfully didn't have to ask for clarification of the two very separate comments.

“I wasn't helping them rob anything. I was helping Snart and his sister-”

“Hold up,” Laurel interrupted. “Statements like that are not helpful. Because we have you on CCTV and at your arrest, very definitely present for a robbery. And we have both of the men who were caught within the vault saying you let them into the vault in the first place. A vault _you_ do not _own_. Nor do you have the passkey for. And yet we have your fingerprints on the security system, just... _everywhere_ on it. So you just agreed with their testimony that you _helped_ them and, as your lawyer, I need you to _never_ say those words again. Ever.”

Barry hung his head and tugged at the handcuffs to help manage a ridiculous influx of energy. He had been under surveillance for twenty-four hours, the only thing he had been able to do with any kind of speed was count the ceiling tiles. He was getting fidgety and had a hard time focusing on anything not directly related to someone showing him the front door. He sat up, took a breath to try to center, and tried again.

“Uhm. Okay. So. hypothetically speaking. The Flash happened to show up. And _he_ asked me to go undercover with Snart because Lewis Snart was _kind of_ going on a killing spree. And _the Flash_ wanted to know where Lewis was going to be and when so he could make sure nobody else got hurt, and _the Flash_ asked me to help. So I helped... the Flash?”

Laurel listened that time. But she didn't look happy with the answer. She seemed rather surprised and very much the _opposite_ of happy.

“Oh god, Barry. You are so screwed.”

No part of that statement would ever be found on the list of things the Falsely Accused would want to hear their attorney say.

 

*****

 

Thankfully, the arraignment was brief. It was not a trial. Barry’s magic metahuman-logic would not need explained. Laurel would have time to build a defense. The most uncomfortable thing about the meeting with the court was the fact that all of Barry’s friends sat in the rows behind the bench to watch. And, if it weren’t for Oliver Queen’s efforts at helpfully restraining his girlfriend, Felicity Smoak looked like she would be about five seconds from strangling Barry with her bare hands.

Unfortunately, Barry’s silence with the officers overnight had given the DA plenty of time to think up more charges. Breaking and entering, accomplice to a crime involving a firearm, obstruction of justice... and _oh, by the way_ , Barry Allen was on suspension from the CCPD pending resolution of the charges.

“The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Laurel reported. Barry found that deeply ironic after her assessment of his chances just a half hour earlier.

“Considering your client is a member of law enforcement, I am heartened to hear that,” the judge said. “Let the truth of the situation come out in trial.”

“He very much looks forward to that, sir,” replied Laurel. Barry let himself relax a little, tried to hold his knee still from the nervous bounce it did in the chair.

“Your Honor,” interrupted the DA. “Given the defendant’s financial status, resources, and, frankly, his less than stellar choice in business partners this week, the City would like to withhold the option of bail. Mr. Allen has been less than cooperative with investigators thus far and we’re worried the pattern may continue.”

“Less than co- it says here Mr. Allen is a CSI. He is an investigator,” said the judge. “There’s no reason someone so familiar with the system would be less than helpful in a situation like this.”

The judge did that judge-thing where he looked over the brim of his glasses, directly at Barry.

“It’s... complicated... sir,” said a rather flustered Laurel. Barry narrowed his eyes at her. She pretended not to notice. “The case is not as open and shut as it appears on the surface-”

“Ms. Lance, when a man is caught with his hand in the cookie jar, it's a rather binary situation. Yes or no, true or false, innocent or guilty.”

Laurel nodded but raised her hands to illustrate the man’s attention diverting to just _beside_ the cookie jar. “Yes, but, Your Honor, this man was caught only in the _proximity_ of the cookie jar, and there are extenuating circumstances the investigators are still going to need to look into. The delays so far have been purely procedural- we are trying to be thorough here. He _does_ work in law enforcement.”

The judge considered it. “Hmm. I suppose it is difficult to rearrange your schedule and travel at the whim of a client.”

“Yes sir.”

“And I would assume it is a testimony to Mr. Allen’s character that you are doing so on his behalf.”

Laurel nodded again at the leading question. “It is, sir. I believe Mr. Allen is innocent and I do intend to prove it to your court.”

The judge looked over his glasses again at Barry, who at this point already felt about as big as an ant. A great big, squirming, sweaty ant.

“Given this is such an unusual circumstance,” the judge said, shuffling papers to move the case along. “I will allow the request that bail be denied. That way you may have easier access to your client, as your schedule allows. And perhaps the change of working environment in the meantime will incentivize Mr. Allen to be more forthcoming with information when his peers in law enforcement request it. Less distractions and obstructions.”

“Wha-wait-” Barry caught himself before he talked over the protests of not only Laurel, but also Joe and Iris, Cisco, and even Oliver. Caitlin and Felicity had the good sense to stay seated when the judge delivered the bad news.

“Your Honor, we can offer multiple character witnesses to Barry’s credibility and trustworthiness. He is not a flight risk-” Laurel began.

“Yes, I see, in addition to the District Attorney of Star City, the mayoral hopeful, which is promising,” said the judge. “But that also proves the validity of the request. Resources. With access to money and transport and trust to abuse. And in defense of your client’s rights, this court chooses not to allow him the temptation. He will reside at Iron Heights until the preliminary hearing in ten days’ time. I believe you’re familiar with the process here? Should new evidence come to light that changes the status of these charges or the holding arrangement, we will re-evaluate at that time. See the clerk to make your schedule, Ms. Lance.”

The gavel banged on the decision and the judge stood to leave, dissuading all further appeals to his authority. Barry looked up at Laurel, waiting for some sign that it was a joke. He suddenly felt ten years old and lost. Joe and Iris crowded the back of his chair, babbling about things Barry probably should have been listening to, but he felt like he was moving through sludge, too slow. Too restrained. He just couldn't focus on their words.

He cleared up a little when the bailiff collected him to take him out the back of the courtroom, back to holding. If the judge really meant what he said, then Barry was going to have to get used to the less dignified entryways, and all of them would lead to bars and cement.

 

****

 

The worst part about the whole thing was that Barry had been trying to help. Maybe in a way he had been overreaching the Flash’s mission statement though; by helping Snart and his sister, he had been hoping for some kind of rehabilitation on their part in return. Sprinkle a little kindness and maybe they would think twice before spreading mayhem. It was hard to deny that had been part of his thinking on it. That was something friends could do for each other, outside of life-or-death situations, but it wasn't what the Flash was geared to do, though. He could save lives but he couldn't steer them on life paths.

Ten days in Iron Heights was one helluva way to learn that lesson.

If his dad could survive over ten years in prison, Barry figured he could survive ten days. He would just have to keep his head up, eyes open, and superspeed down. He had the best team on the outside working to help him. He just had to trust them. Barry could do that.

From the courthouse, Barry was taken back to the CCPD holding cells to await transport to Iron Heights. He didn't get his cozy corner cell with the bunk bed and the shiny metal sink-toilet, just four walls of bars, and a bench. No roommate this time, either, so that was a perk.

Barry was trying really hard to stay positive. It was only ten days. He could handle it.

And then Real Life showed up to test his resolve. Joe West walked down the hall, accompanied by Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance. Barry pasted on a half-hearted smile and stood up to greet them as much like an adult as he could; maybe there were bars between them but he could at least look them in the eye.

“Hey, guys,” he said. He wasn't even pretending to sound tired; he was exhausted.

“Baer,” greeted Joe. Oliver offered up an acknowledging nod but his serious expression seemed rather set. He caught the bar near where Barry leaned on the cell and stood close.

“Care to explain how this happened?” Oliver asked, with perhaps false patience. “Iris and Caitlin had to take Felicity to Jitters to calm her down. She actually threatened to kill you so now Cisco is talking about some kind of hacker early-warning device to make sure _Iron Heights is safe enough_ for you. I mean, come on, man.”

Barry lightly pounded his head against the bars. _Positive thoughts... positive thoughts..._

“Okay, well, first of all, taking Felicity for caffeine will probably only add to the murderous intent, so maybe that wasn't the best choice,” said Barry. Joe gave a laugh.

“Oh, yes, let's talk about best choices, Baer.”

“Second!” Barry pointedly ignored his dad. “Talk to Cisco, okay? He can explain everything. Well. I mean, almost everything. I probably shouldn't here...”

“What did you _do_ , Allen?” Oliver asked again.

Barry sighed, took a second to mull it over, then tried again. “I tried to keep Lewis Snart from killing anyone else. I just wanted to monitor them, know where they were. Things went sideways and I ran out of time, couldn't call for help from the PD because Lewis was going to kill his next target if it didn't go perfect...”

“ _Monitor_ \- so you really were there? You really did let them in that vault?” Oliver asked, surprised. Barry froze up, opened his mouth to claim his Fifth Amendment right, but Oliver shook his head. “Don't answer that. Never mind.”

“See where my problem is?” Laurel asked, quiet. “We know he was doing what he needed to do for Flash. But I can't exactly use Flash as an authority in this. If this were any other case, it would be best to plea for a lighter sentence but we can't risk that here.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” muttered Barry.

“It's not my job to make you feel better. It's my job to keep you out of jail, which is virtually impossible when your fingerprints are all over the vault lock,” said Laurel. “You’re lucky I started my career defending the bad-luck impossible cases.”

They all went quiet when they heard footsteps in the hall on approach. Barry looked over in time to see Joe’s new partner walk in. That was the last thing he needed to deal with just then. It was bad enough being locked up, now he had to deal with Patty seeing it. Whatever awkward crush-flirty-maybe-something they had been working on the last few weeks seemed to be gone now. Ten days was just ten days, but prison bar shadows would take a lot longer to scrub off.

“Detective West, the Captain is looking for you,” Patty said. She was all business, polite-cop. She didn't look at Barry once. Joe checked his silenced phone and swore under his breath.

“Did he say what about?” Joe asked her. Patty shuffled a bit, awkward with the question in present company, and then gave a vague wave of the hand toward Barry.

“Oh.” Joe looked from Patty to Barry. Inside the cell, Barry backed off and nodded acceptance. Joe looked to Oliver and Laurel. “We gotta go. You done with him or-”

“We’ll go talk to Cisco, see what he can tell us,” said Oliver. He looked over to Barry. “We’ll be back before you get moved over. Maybe Laurel can get the detective off your back in time.”

Barry tried to grin and wave him off. “You’re not my lawyer.”

“No, just your friend. So _your friends_ will help you out with this. And, when you’re out, we’ll hold you down so Felicity can kick your ass,” said Oliver with a shrug. “That's how this works.”

Laurel nodded. “As your lawyer, I can verify everything he just said is true.”

Barry was somehow relieved and actually did smile at that.

 

*****


	3. Chapter 3

Laurel did make it back before the transport. She had scheduled the appointment with Detective Johnson the night before so the transport that Barry was dreading had been pushed back a few hours. Which left Barry and his lawyer sitting in the interrogation room across the table from Johnson. The man was a burly and grumpy sort on most days, but he was particularly unhappy dealing with an assumed dirty cop.

“So. We get to have a conversation now, yeah?” Detective Johnson asked.

“We’re all friends here, right,” said Barry with his usual level of hopeful. Laurel and the detective wore matching looks of dismal.

“When did you fall in with the Snarts?” asked Johnson.

That was an open question. Barry’s conscience wanted to answer things honestly. But that was not a question to be answered honestly.

“Well, I mean, I didn't _fall_ _in_ anything. Lewis is a murderer and the second he came to town, bodies started dropping-”

“Oh, you noticed that. Good to hear. So I ask again, when did you start associating with the Snarts?”

“I don't _associate_ with them...”

“You let them in a vault. Do you _ordinarily_ just wander around letting people into locked doors? And while we’re on the subject, how did you know which code to use? Are you familiar with that system? How? Is it related to your day job?”

“Detective, let's just shortcut this machismo, cop-anger thing happening here,” interrupted Laurel. “You ask _me_ the questions. I will calmly translate them to _your fellow officer_.” Johnson looked like he wanted to make a comment and she shut him down again. “By the book. No badgering.”

“I’m not badgering.”

“My client is a witness to a crime. He is also a sworn law enforcement officer. You are treating him like a _criminal_ ,” said Laurel. “My father’s a cop, Detective. I understand your frustration with this case. So back up. Try again. Stop trying to turn Barry Allen into a dirty cop because it's the easy way to close the case.”

Johnson scowled but considered her very calmly spoken words. He didn't like it, but he eventually tried it her way.

“Fine. When did _your client_ first interact with Lewis and Leonard Snart?” he asked her.

Laurel smiled at him like she was handing out rewards and said “Thank you! Much more direct. Good.”

And then, before Barry could respond to the question, Laurel answered for him. The next question went the same way, with Laurel filling in the details that were asked for, nothing more, nothing less, from what she had learned from Cisco and Caitlin. As the questions kept on, Barry had the sneaking suspicion she had seen the tapes that Cisco had erased, but he knew better than to ask.

Finally, Johnson looked to Barry. He pointed a finger at Laurel. “Is this all true?”

Barry nodded. “So far, yeah. I've been trying to tell you I didn't do anything...”

“Except suit up with these guys and break them into a vault, so they could commit a bigger crime,” replied Johnson.

“But if I didn't, that woman would have been killed. I figured if I messed up on the code enough, the security guys would call in the CCPD, which they did, and you could make the arrests and nothing would be stolen and _nobody would die_ ,” said Barry. “I didn’t know I’d accidentally type in the right code to open the doors.”

“Neither of them mentioned any woman, which is where it sounds like your story is bullpucky,” Johnson said, a finger jabbing in Barry’s direction. “I got nothing to corroborate _your_ story.”

“Lewis Snart tried to kill Barry the second they were in the vault, Detective. Go back to the scene, you’ll find the bullet holes in the wall,” said Laurel. “Again, this is not a simple case. You will have to work to uncover the truth. Otherwise, you commit your fellow officer to possibly five years in Iron Heights. Because you wanted to take the word of a couple of murderers over the word of a CCPD CSI. That doesn't make sense, does it?”

“Nope, we agree on all that,” Johnson said. He nodded and started sorting through the papers in the file in front of him. “But there's a lot about this case that doesn't make sense. Like did you know that Leonard Snart’s record disappeared? It's like the man doesn't exist. Hasn't _existed_. Ever. He's got a rap sheet half a mile long and anyone on the force can probably recite it to you... yet there's nothing in any computer database, no files on the shelves to check out. Just... _poof_.”

Suddenly wishing he was a much better liar than he had ever managed to be in his life so far, Barry looked to Laurel. She just shrugged it off, her surprise obvious but the matter trivial. “That's a serious glitch in the filing system. Have you started checking to be certain no other files are gone?”

“We're looking into it, yes. It could take awhile. Whoever wiped Snart’s file knew our databases pretty good. Almost like an inside job,” said Johnson.

“Then you are a very busy man, Detective. Do you have any further questions for my client?” asked Barry’s new Favorite Lawyer.

“Not right now. But I guess if I do, I'm supposed to call you, huh?”

“Preferably, less hassle since I’m out of town,” replied Laurel. She flipped a business card out of her notes binder and handed it over. Johnson added it to his stack.

The interview was over. Barry found himself being escorted back to the holding bay. He didn't feel any better about his immediate future walking back into his barred cell than he had walking out of it.

 

****

 

Time seemed a lot slower stuck in the holding cells. Barry couldn't tell if it was because he was waiting for the jail transport or because he was stuck being perfectly normal, a speedster in hiding and stuffed in a tiny box. What he knew was that it wasn't getting any better. His skin itched from nerves and impatience. It turned out that Barry Allen was really bad at being patient with his own life.

There were others in the holding cells by now; the day had been a busy one, probably a full moon. Barry didn't really pay attention to anyone outside of his box. He had to focus on not pacing, not using up the nervous energy, not doing any speedster thing that might get seen or caught on camera. The safest place was in his own head with the limitations thusly set out for him. As it was, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the officers in charge of transport showed up at his door.

“Allen,” someone greeted. Barry looked up to see Captain Singh had come down with the transport crew. Oh, crap. Barry stood up quickly - _not too quick, ohshit!_ \- and went to talk to him.

“Look, sir, this is all-”

“A misunderstanding, I know. I heard,” said Singh. He didn't look happy but he didn't look pissed. “It would be a lot easier if you would tell Johnson the truth.”

“I did,” said Barry, surprised. “I swear.”

“You had your lawyer talk to him. _You_ didn't have to say much,” said his boss.

“Yeah, because she told him the same stuff I would have. But he didn't get mad at her for it, so I figured maybe he listened?”

Singh looked at him, a frown on his face. The transport officer opened the cell door and moved in to equip Barry with the handcuffs and ankle bracelets that were part of the whole behind-bars-criminal look. It wasn't Barry’s style, he didn't want to keep it, so he had to tell himself he was just trying it on. Like that time he made friends with the goth kids in Jr high for a couple weeks. It would pass...

Singh didn't look so sure. As the officer escorted Barry out of the cell, Singh caught his arm and blocked their path.

“Allen. One question. And you answer this honest or I let Johnson chase this into the ground,” said Singh. Barry mentally stalled out, could only manage a nod. It seemed to be enough for his boss. “This problem you’re in... does it have anything to do with the stuff West and you have spent the last year on that I’m not supposed to know about?”

“Uh... the uh... sir, honestly, I _don't know_ how to answer that...”

“Your extracurricular meta problem,” Singh said. Barry tried not to hyperventilate. How actually out of control had his life gone lately?

“You know about that?” was all he managed. Somehow he managed not to squeak or choke on it, too, so he counted it as a minor victory. Singh shook his head.

“If there's anything I’m familiar with in my years with law enforcement, it's the Catch 22 of _don't ask, don't tell_. So I didn't ask,” said Singh. He let go of Barry’s arm and stepped aside. “But I’ll see what I can do about this.”

Barry shook his head, tried to dodge the favor.

“It's gotta be by the book or I can't come back,” he pointed out. The officer at his elbow started him walking toward the loading bay.

“You’ll be back here before you know it. Just don't get killed,” Singh called after them. Barry went unusually pale and tried not to think about the advice. That was probably the last possible thing he wanted to hear before stepping up into the lifted armored truck with the uncomfortable plastic lined benches and metal walls.

 

*****

 

This was without doubt the worst possible time for Barry Allen to go to prison. His career, his friendships, sure, he worried about those a little. But he knew that he couldn't stay long in prison without causing problems for Central City itself. He had a... _volunteer gig_ that he really couldn't afford to walk away from just then.

Barry was a sitting duck in a cage for Zoom and all the crazies the man might toss at him. And if he tossed a particularly destructive meta at Barry on the inside, it ran the risk of letting criminals back onto the streets. To say nothing of the fact that a good percentage of the inmates in Iron Heights would gladly help kill a dirty cop tossed into their shark tank. It was daunting; he would be locked in a cage very aware of the fact of his own very mortal existence. It wouldn't be much better for the clueless cities around the prison who didn't know they were vulnerable. Barry had let a lot of people down by trying to help Snart and his sister.

In all the mess and chaos of the last twenty-four hours, the one thing Barry was thankful for was that his dad hadn't been there to see any of it. Henry Allen had just gotten out of prison, he deserved a break from the place. There was nothing Henry could have done to help, and he didn't need to relive the nightmare of the system failing their small family again. There had to be a way around it. Barry wasn't going to be stuck with Iron Heights. There was no reason to stress his dad out about it too when he was already worrying his friends and Joe. It would work out and his dad didn't need to know about it. It was all a misunderstanding and Barry wasn't going to lose his job.

And it hurt bad enough having to see this disappointment on his friends’ faces; there was no way he could handle seeing his dad make that face. Not without losing the tenuous grasp on the whole positive-thinking trick he was trying to maintain.

It felt a little like an attack though, he had to admit. He felt kind of abandoned in general. It hurt that one of the detectives he worked with was so quick to assume the worst about him. Maybe it was a sign that Barry was overly spoiled within the department, coddled even; he showed up late more often than not, sometimes he disappeared entirely. Sure, his work always got done, no matter how much Flash stalled things, but he was hardly seen around the department compared to how life was before that fateful coma.

Maybe this was the pushback, even if no one would ever call him Singh’s favorite anything. Maybe this was just some next-level office politics. When drunk-tank hazing was considered too juvenile, maybe the CCPD showed acceptance by tossing their fellow law enforcement civil servants into prison.

Right. Jealous office pranks were _totally_ why Barry found himself loaded into the back of the prison transport van that day.

The truck looked intimidating, just a metal-lined box on wheels with benches on the walls and manacle fasteners on the floor and on the seats. It was air conditioned, which was nice, considering his prison cell wouldn't be; one last ride in climate controlled comfort.

Barry looked back toward the door as the next prisoner was brought in. It was an hour to Iron Heights, so it looked like Barry would have a road trip buddy. It didn't promise to be a warm one: Leonard Snart sat down on the bench across from him. He looked surprised to see Barry there somehow. What did he think was going to happen?

The officer locked Snart into the manacle ports to share with Barry, and then left, closing and locking the door from the inside. A glowing, white-blue light bounced around from the ceiling to keep the back of the sealed off truck from going black, like felons were afraid of the dark. Of course they were the only transports. The way the day had gone so far, it only made sense. Barry stared across the small space at Snart and he stared back, because there was obviously nothing else to do for an hour. Dear ol’ Leonard was pissed off about something though; his brow had a slight angry tic in defiance to the smug grin the rest of his face held.

“Well. I didn't think this was the vault you wanted to break into,” Barry said, complaining as much as taunting. “It's mobile. No gems or anything valuable stashed inside. Free room and board for a while though.”

“Yes, Barry. I am _obviously thrilled_ with this turn of events,” said Snart. He was _obviously_ being sarcastic. Barry took that as a win, let his attention drift to the small window in the back doors as the truck started up and they prepared to leave.

The silence hung around, not exactly uncomfortable. They were hardly friends, and Barry was just a little angry with the man, so he didn't care if Snart didn't like sitting across from him in the cramped space. He pretended it didn't bug him that they were both tall enough that they still bumped knees and shoes on some of the corners. The manacles were looped together through the same rung in the floor so they couldn't really move away. It was just another minor discomfort and insult that Barry was going to have to get used to. He was going to miss his space bubble. At least he knew Snart.

_Because_ he knew the man, he was surprised by an attempt at casual chatter. "So... how was your day?"

Barry let out a short, unamused laugh at the question. "I'm going to Iron Heights thanks to you, so obviously, this is a _great_ day."

There was a smile on Snart’s face, but it was fake. He was gloating, but he was angry. "Oh good. Allow me then to make it better."

 “How?” Suspicious, Barry arched an eyebrow at him. He looked to the handcuffs to be certain Snart was secured because that sounded just enough like a threat. Snart pretended not to notice and maintained a false cheer.

"Well. The good news is they don't think I _personally_ hit delete-all on my criminal record," he said. Given the things Johnson had said in their interview - Barry refused to consider it an interrogation - Snart’s news wasn't exactly the best news of the day.

"That's the good news?" Barry asked.

"Good for me. At least I'm not you." Snart smiled at him. Barry paled.

“They think I did it?” he asked. Snart nodded.

“He offered a plea if I’d flip on you,” he said. Barry sunk back against the protected metal wall of the transport truck. Snart watched him, obviously loving it. The smug grin was more like a mean smile as he watched Barry suffer. It was nearly a minute before he decided to stop tormenting.

“Don't worry. I didn't single you out. I didn't say anything. They sent me a shitty public defender. I don't plan on saying anything at all,” said Snart.

“That's not what Johnson said,” Barry replied. Snart shrugged.

“Who’re you gonna believe? Me or the guy who's trying to put you in prison?” he asked. Barry fisted his hands around the shared manacles, tugging on Snart’s hands as he did.

“You _did_ put me in prison, Snart! And now you’re sitting there pissed at me about it somehow when I’m not the one who changed the plan,” said Barry.

That did wipe the smug taunt from Snart’s face and he leaned forward on his bench again. He pulled the same trick Barry had, except when Barry yanked on the chains just to get attention, Snart did it just to reel him in. Barry resisted and pulled back and they reached a stalemate of sorts staring eye to eye over their knees.

“You changed the plan. _You_ weren't supposed to be here,” said Snart, harsh. “Now they're looking into my files. I can't just disappear again. It's a tangled shitstorm and it's all because you didn't run away when you were supposed to. You’re too important to be here, you bring too much attention, and I’m stuck figuring out a new plan.”

“Or you could, you know, accept your debt to society and serve whatever your prison term ends up to be,” said Barry. That was the second time Snart had placed value on Barry as a human and it was slightly off putting to not know why.

“That’s easy for you to say,” returned Snart. “You’re here on some kind of cop hazing, a little ‘Scared Straight’ BS and you’ll be out the second your lawyer figures it out.”

“If they go after me for your record, I’ll be there _somewhat_ longer than that,” said Barry.

Snart rolled his eyes. “I _told them_ you didn't do it.”

“Pretty sure they consider you a professional liar,” pointed out Barry. Snart shrugged it off. But he stopped talking after that. He dropped his hold on the manacles and leaned back against the wall again. Barry stayed leaned on his knees, head bowed as he stared down at the chains on the floor. This was not how one made friends in prison. He sighed and scrubbed at his face.

“Look. Did you mean it when you said you’d back me up in there?” he asked. Snart glared at him. Barry took that as an affirmative. “Because I know I'm gonna need it. I've got enough people after my head right now. I can't take care of it by myself and I know it. So I just... I guess I want to know who’s side you're gonna be on.”

That surprised Snart a little. His expression changed, not quite as angry. “That depends. Who’s side are you on?”

Barry pointed at the locked doors of the transport van. “I’m _here_ , aren't I? And as we have now fully established, I shouldn't be. So I think that’s pretty obvious.”

Frowning at him, Snart considered it. Then he nodded. “I meant what I said.”

“Truce then?” Barry asked. He sat up enough to offer a hand to shake on it. Snart hesitated, didn't trust it. But he finally managed to shove back the paranoia and accepted.

“Allies,” he promised.

 

******


	4. Chapter 4

Iron Heights looked a lot more intimidating from the other side of the bars. Barry had been there so many times visiting his dad, so many times to talk to suspects and incarcerated witnesses with investigators about cases, but he didn't recognize the prison from the unloading area. There were a few other transports from other cities, so Barry and Snart had to wait for their turn to be unloaded and then stand in a line for processing. Their possessions waited for them to verify the contents of the bags and then sign off on them before they would be put into storage. Barry didn't have much of value because he had asked Joe to take things home, like he was a kid who had overpacked for a track meet. It was safer for everyone that Barry’s cell phone not become state-access property so that bit of parental protectiveness seemed wise.

Barry also felt very coddled, standing in line with people, some kids barely eighteen years old, covered in tattoos, dirty hair and poor hygiene. He knew that rough life wasn't the norm, that statistically, these men were outliers, not representative of how a man should behave or treat even themselves. But looking around, Barry saw that he didn't belong with the crowd. He was strong and he was smart, but it was an entirely different kind of both. He felt uneducated and unprepared, like a kid. He knew Snart and gravitated toward him, standing at the man's heels and trying to follow his lead. Snart kept his word and tolerated the shadow, but when Barry crowded his shoulder, Snart did shoot him a glare. Barry took in everything and didn't argue the hint, just took a step back.

“Don't crowd the bulls like you crowd me or you'll have both sides gunning for you,” Snart ordered, quiet enough to avoid catching attention but loud enough for Barry. Barry blinked over at him, confusion plain. Snart rolled his eyes.

“The wha-”

Snart cut him off. “Bulls. Guards. The bosses that run the yard-”

“Corrections officers?” asked Barry. For some reason it amused him. He was used to being called a pig, and now he was a pig surrounded by bulls.

“One big happy barnyard,” Barry said, an attempt at humor that didn't quite catch on. Snart shook his head.

“Either way, you’re on the menu with the omnivores, Scarlet. Pay attention.”

It was a learning experience. A lesson in empathy for the people he dealt with as CCPD and as the Flash. Only temporary. It would only ever happen once in his life and would soon be gone. From that perspective, it wasn't too bad. Except for the part where his captain’s last advice to him was to stay alive. And he had to do it without relying on his metahuman gifts.

The lesson learned from donning the prison jumpsuit was that Barry Allen without the Flash was easy prey in a room full of thieves and murderers.

Leonard Snart seemed somehow more comfortable in the dark blue prison uniform than he had in the street clothes. The only time Barry had seen the man otherwise more self assured was in the bulky, stupid winter coat with a cold gun in his hand. Once the manacles were off and the group of new prisoners were lead off to their new minimalist apartment community dwellings with their free mini-travel kit for the hygienic Hail Mary, Snart got in Barry’s space. He grabbed him by the arm or shoved at him to steer him, keep him present, keep Barry from staring or looking too much like a “fresh fish” in the tank.

At the end of another hallway, the group of fifteen newbies waited with their officer escorts as another door was unlocked. Barry looked around, wide eyed, as they stepped out of the hallway into the cell block. It was three levels of closed cells with narrow walkways to navigate them, a massive empty space in the middle and a glass-arched ceiling far out of reach even to the most adventurous of climbers. It was night out, cloudy. Barry’s jaw went slack.

“You are your own worst enemy in this place,” Snart told him quietly. “I can _smell_ the fear off you.”

Barry glared at him for it, rolled his shoulder to try to claim some of his personal space back. “They don't exactly hand out cologne in the mess-kit.”

Up ahead, the officer at the lead barked orders and Barry tried to pay attention. _Stay inside the yellow lines on the floor, something about rollcall..._

“Your face is your problem. Stop looking like a lost puppy or someone's going to kick you,” said Snart, quiet and unheard thanks to the noise of men in cages beyond. “And I'm not going to be with you to fix your face before somebody rearranges it for you.”

Barry caught Snart by the arm that time. “What do you mean? You said-”

Snart rolled his eyes and nodded up ahead to the front of the line. One at a time, prisoners were being passed off to cells, most of them already occupied. One of the new guys would be waved inside, an officer would bang a baton on the bars, and the door of the cell would rattle shut. Barry would have an unknown cellmate to deal with. He hadn't considered that. Snart had gotten him into this mess, Snart was supposed to see him through it.

Barry had no rational explanation for why he was angry at this change in plans when he hadn't consciously made the plans, but he was. The anger showed on his face because Snart patted his back, that annoying smug grin on his face. “There. Keep that face, fish. You might make it.”

With the one unknown factor, the one familiar thing taken from him, Barry’s curiosity shifted to defense. Oliver’s training kicked in; know the scene before you enter it, watch your back, expect trouble. The scientist in Barry traded off with what he had learned behind the cowl. He looked for the corners in the massive room, looked for the hiding places, the handholds in walls if he needed to climb, looked for the places he could launch attack or be attacked from.

Even without the suit, without the speed, there were some concepts he could rely on. It just wasn't a mental space that Barry was used to occupying. Flash suspected everyone and everything, looked for the suspicious, had learned the hard way to prepare for that split-second change that could attack, but Barry Allen was used to dealing with victims, used to offering comfort and finding answers. Science made sense, psychology of damaged human interaction maybe less so.

Walking past men in cages making grumbled threats, strange whistles and catcalls, and the random sarcastic “Welcome to the Heights!” Barry reminded himself that humans made no sense. There wasn't a single one around him that he could trust, at least for the next ten days.

The group dwindled down to ten prisoners by the second level. Twenty cells in a row, twenty cells across the empty floor, and twenty per side per level as they went up. Two men per cell, max. Some cells were empty, some cells only had one occupant. _At least_ one hundred twenty men per cell block. Three officers escorted fifteen new prisoners, so the ratios were probably three to one in the prisoners’ favor in case of a riot. Barry hadn't put a lot of thought into the numbers until he was stuck as one of them. And there were over a hundred individual ways Zoom could turn Barry’s environment against him if he wasn't careful.

Around the middle of the second level, Barry was pulled forward by the officer in the lead. He was waved into the little eight by five cell that was blessedly empty. White-on-gray walls, painted metal surfaces that tried badly to disappear into the background. Barry looked around and saw the rolled up ratty mattresses over the thick wire suspension on the bunk bed, the scratched up shiny metal sink and toilet, the warped silver metal that was supposed to be a mirror. There was a shelf over the sink for the small soap collection he had been given.

Barry took all that in and then turned around. To his surprise, Snart stood behind him, unreadable. The officer at the door caught Barry’s attention.

“You good, Allen?” He asked. A nod to Snart cleared up what he meant by it. “West said he owed you.”

Barry nodded, distracted. He had his safety net after all. Snart looked perpetually annoyed, but the set of his shoulders was relaxed as he claimed the bottom bunk again. The officer banged the baton on the bars and the door rolled shut on squeaky gears. Barry stood in the narrow space between the bunk and the wall, still holding the toiletry kit, watched the door close, stared out at the small world beyond the bars. The other prisoners trailed past, the noises faded somewhat.

“Unpack, Barry,” said Snart. “We’re in for the night. Lights out soon.”

Nerves left Barry tense. The bars were intimidating. He was trapped. Worse than that, he couldn't help anyone from there. He didn't want to “unpack” because he didn't want to stay. Still, he talked himself into it. Found a place to store his free stuff. Unrolled the mattress on the top bunk. Tried to ignore Snart sitting at the edge of the lower bunk, in his space because there was no other place to be.

“I owe you, huh?” Snart asked. He didn't sound very indebted. Barry scowled at the mattress as he tried to fix the sheet around the corners.

“No,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Snart’s posture ease up again.

“Allies,” he said. Barry nodded. It was probably the safer outlook with Snart. The man didn't like to feel cornered any more than Barry did, and Barry really needed the stability of a Snart who thought he was in control. He mostly knew what to expect from Snart as long as the man didn't start fighting him.

When Snart leaned down to take his shoes off, his shoulder brushed Barry’s hip. Barry sparked excess energy, zapping the both of them with electricity thanks to the metal bed frame. Snart jumped up, away from the bed to put his back to the wall.

“What was that?”

Barry didn't look back at him, just finished his chore with the bed. He jumped up onto the bunk, sat on the edge with his legs hanging down to claim some space. He shook his head, spread his hands apologetically. “I haven't been on a run for... two days? I'm not used to _storing_ the energy, I guess?”

Snart pointed at the bed. “You are aware that is metal, yes?” He asked. Barry nodded. “And metal conducts electricity.”

“You’ll be fine. I promise,” said Barry. He wasn't positive he could make that promise because he had never had a situation like this one, but he felt comfortable gambling with it. “I just have to figure out how to use up energy before I get to eat again.”

Snart looked up at him, curious, a slow amusement on his face, but he didn't say anything. He shook his head. “Do push-ups. No one will notice.”

Barry considered it, shrugged. That was probably what he would have to do. “Except there's a catch,” he said. He pointed out the bars at the world beyond it. “If I can see them, they can see me.”

“There's a lot that goes on that you don't see, especially after lights out,” Snart replied. He stood for a moment beside the bunk, testing the proximity to metal and Barry to be sure he didn't get sparked again. When he seemed satisfied it was safe, he took his spot on the bunk and disappeared. Barry frowned and looked around the small room again, his attention falling on his new, Velcro-clasp, slip-on shoes off the edge of the bed just before the lights cut out. Of all the stupid things surrounding him then, Barry suddenly missed his own _shoes_.

 

****

 

There was no peace and quiet in a prison, even after they cut the lights. It was not a _vacation_ for the pure of heart victims of the system just waiting for their day in court, nothing remotely relaxing to being locked in a box surrounded by murderers and thieves and worse. Barry could not use the time to just check-out just because there was nothing to do, no pressing business, no demand on his time from within those three walls and barred door. He was all too aware of the world outside the prison and the city that needed him. His mind wouldn't quiet, just like the cellblock wouldn't; there was always some random spare thought that made silence impossible.

Some people in prison actually managed to sleep. Barry wasn't one of them. Every little sound he heard caught his attention. Somebody on one of the levels was humming, somebody else was muttering words to an entirely different song. There was rattling and squeaking of old cots under thin mattresses, other noises Barry didn't want to try to identify along with it. Somebody was sniffling, like they had a cold, but they were probably crying. Barry heard more than he knew how to process. There was no way he could sleep in that place.

For awhile he thought he heard his new roommate snoring, but that was replaced with breathing. Barry could measure how badly his life had gone off the rails by the number of criminals whose breathing patterns he had memorized. The tally was now two: Grodd, a giant freaking ape, and Leonard Snart, otherwise known as Captain Cold.

There was a lot of weird in Barry’s life, but recognizing when Snart was awake or asleep based on his breathing was somehow a new level.

When he was sure Snart was awake, Barry poked his head over the edge of the bed and looked down at his cellmate. He saw Snart looking alert, sharp eyes already meeting Barry’s.

“When do they do bed checks?” Barry whispered down at him. “When is breakfast?”

“Why?” Snart asked. Barry hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to rely on the man.

“Because... Are we there yet?” It was a safe answer, a joke to dismiss it and a repeated question because he wasn't going to drop it.

“Am I supposed to threaten to turn this car around?” Snart seemed amused but wasn't about to give ground. Barry tapped impatiently at the bed frame, mentally arguing with himself. Finally, he figured the gamble was worth it. He dropped down to the floor, crouched at the edge of the bed to lower his voice. Snart narrowed his eyes at the intrusion of space but didn't move other than to lift up onto an elbow.

“I have _options_ , is the thing,” Barry said. “I have places I need to be tonight. I just have to know when I have to be back.”

That certainly caught Snart’s attention. “Back?”

“I want to clear my name, man. I'm stuck here until they let me out. But the Flash isn't,” Barry explained.

“Pretty sure everyone out there,” Snart nodded to the cellblock, “Will notice a lightning streak shooting past every night.”

Barry shrugged it off. “I’ll go through the wall.”

The usually composed Snart went slightly bug-eyed. “You can go through- _what_ \- Barry, I might kill you...”

“What? It's a thing-”

“Why the hell are you _here_?” Snart asked. “If you can leave at any time, we should be _leaving_.”

“It would look kind of bad if I got back in the morning and my cellmate wasn't here, wouldn't it?” Barry replied.

Snart looked at him flatly, unimpressed with Barry’s naivete. “Barry. I understand you have a sharp scientific mind, you have lead a particularly sheltered life. But it doesn't take a Field’s Medal to look around and realize you are currently in a high security prison. It _looks bad_ that you're in here at all.”

“We’ve covered this,” Barry said. “I’m in here. The Flash _can't_ be. If I stay in here, I can't help people. And I can't move. I can't exactly explain the electric shock therapy to everyone who bumps into me. I have to keep moving.”

“That's science?” Snart asked, already not happy with the answer. Barry nodded. Snart dropped back onto his pillow to stare at the mattress Barry really didn't want to occupy.

“I’ll bring back breakfast?” Barry wasn't sure how to entice the criminal to let him break the law without involving profit for him. Snart looked over at Barry, eyes narrowed and disinterest plain.

“You’re going to just... leave? Every night. And _come back_ , every day,” he clarified. Barry nodded his head again.

“That's the idea,” he said. “I mean, think about it. It would look a little off if I go to prison and the Flash disappears.” Seeing the leverage Snart would need, Barry added, “Then anybody on the force could figure out who the Flash is. There goes your _get out of jail free_ card.”

“You owe me for this,” Snart decided. “Big.”

“Ten days. That's all I need. That's it. I swear,” said Barry. “Laurel will get my case dismissed at the hearing, then I’m out of here.”

“ _We_ ,” said Snart. “You want me to keep quiet when you go walkabout, then when you leave for the last time, you take me with you. Somehow.”

Barry hesitated to agree with that trade. “We can figure something out. Maybe Laurel can take your case-”

Snart sat up on his elbow again, looking for the physical leverage again. “Barry... don't. You agree to this or the second you leave at night, I raise the alarm. That way, you and me are here for awhile longer until you see things _my way_.”

Barry narrowed his eyes at the dirty pool. “What happened to allies?”

“ _Flash_ walking through prison walls every night happened,” said Snart. “If they do a headcount while you’re gone, I’m the one who gets sent to isolation. You can't bring back fresh air and freedom every morning. I’ll keep quiet, and I’ll help you out in here, but I want _your word_. When you leave, _I_ leave.”

“Fine! I’ll figure something out!” Barry managed to stay quiet about it but Snart was giving him a migraine. He wanted _something_ to go smoothly. Snart throwing out moral and ethical roadblocks was wasting time and Barry didn't feel like he had a lot of that to lose. And Snart could tell, too.

“Barry...”

“Okay! You have my word, I will help get you out. When I leave, you leave.”

Snart watched him a moment, then nodded. “They used to do a walk-through at 4am. Count is at 7am.”

The man started sitting up as he whispered and Barry had to lean back on his heels to give him room. “Used to?”

“I've been gone awhile,” Snart pointed out. “I’ll take notes tonight, have a better timeframe in the morning. This should throw them off for now.”

Barry stayed down as Snart started messing with Barry’s bed. It was enough of an oddity that he stood to investigate, standing just at Snart’s shoulder as the man shoved a pillow and wadded up sheet under the blanket. In the dark, it looked like Barry in a weird, artless way, as long as no one looked from closer than six feet.

“Is _that_ what I look like to you?” Barry asked. It was a pointless joke, well below his standards. Snart stopped moving, turned just enough to stare at Barry as he leaned against the top bunk. Barry was suddenly aware that there was roughly two feet of space between the bed and the wall, and he and Snart together took up that space fully. There was zero space bubble.

Right. _Prison_. No space bubble.

Barry coughed, nervousness up and on display. He raised a hand.

“I’m gonna go now...”

Snart nodded approval. “Great idea,” he replied, still quiet. He didn't move at all, let Barry work around him to get to his not-an-escape plan. There was much more touching and bodily contact than probably necessary. After being shoved around by a group of guys all evening, it was nothing, just shared space. Barry was for some reason more aware of it.

He really needed to go for a run.

 

*****


	5. Chapter 5

There was no stopping Barry when he hit the fresh air outside the brick walls of Iron Heights. It had been days since he had been able to move at what felt like a natural speed, even if his speed was anything but natural. They knew he could store energy, but he had never had to feel the side effects of doing so. He preferred to use it up, it was as necessary as breathing. Iron Heights was intimidating, but the place itself was nowhere near as miserable as the feeling of being unable to move. It couldn't last. The team had to figure out a way around Barry’s impossible situation.

The prison’s jumpsuit wasn't built for the speed Barry wanted to go, so he had to hold back on the way to S.T.A.R. Labs. He was even careful stripping out of it to get his suit. As an afterthought, just to have a place to keep them, he hung the jumpsuit on the mannequin for the Flash’s suit. Just in case Cisco and Caitlin didn't realize the sudden gust of air was actually Barry, making his usual high-speed entrance to the cortex. Maybe they needed the extra hint of a blue-gray jumpsuit in place of the Flash red.

As it was, he was out of the building again and three blocks away before he heard activity on the comm.

“Barry?!” Caitlin’s voice was a little chirpy from the scandal of his visit. “What are you doing? You can't be out-”

“The Flash has to make his rounds, Caitlin,” said Barry. “If I don't, there won't be much mystery as to who he is if he disappears when Barry Allen goes to jail.”

“You aren't going to jail,” said another voice. A familiar one. A welcome one. Oliver was on the comms, which meant Arrow was on the streets of Central City. “This is just a temporary setback.”

“That's what I keep telling myself,” Barry replied. He felt so much relief in that moment and yet somehow his speed kicked up a notch. Something finally felt like the world was alright. It was crazy and getting crazier, but he still had his friends. “So what’s on the boards tonight?”

“It's actually been pretty quiet,” said Cisco.

“Well, it was,” said Caitlin. “We can probably expect some sirens from the vicinity of Iron Heights before too long.”

Of course Caitlin was worried. Barry headed for the docks to take laps around the waterfront just to use up energy until they gave him something more helpful to do. “Snart was going to cover for me,” said Barry. “He said we’ll be fine as long as I’m back before four am.”

“ _We_? What's this _we_ business, kemosabe?” asked Cisco. “It sounds suspiciously like you just added one Captain Cold to Team Flash. I definitely think that's something that should get put up to a vote.”

_Captain_. Something triggered in Barry’s brain and he switched course. He broke off through the side streets, headed for the CCPD. It wasn't too late yet. If Captain Singh kept hours anything like Joe’s, he would still be there.

“He’s not on the team. But he’s the only backup I’ve got in there. I think Joe pulled some strings so Snart’s my new roommate,” he told them.

“Man, that sucks,” Cisco complained. “You have my condolences.”

“It could have been worse. Snart’s a known quantity, even if he is a wildcard,” said Oliver.

“Exactly,” replied Barry. “I’m at least pretty sure Snart doesn't want me dead. If it had been his dad, or any of a dozen others I could think to mention, I wouldn't be _allowed_ to sleep at night.”

“It looks like you won't be doing much of that anyway,” Caitlin pointed out.

“I promise to get some sleep, Doctor,” Barry said, grinning. He heard a quiet ‘harrumph’ from Caitlin in the background. Then he pulled up on the speed just at the doors to the police department. “Gimmie a minute, guys. Gotta talk to the boss.”

“Wait. We have a boss?” Cisco asked as Barry killed the comm.

 

****

 

Inside the police department, Barry moved fast enough to pass unnoticed, but slow enough not to cause his usual tornado. He grinned as he buzzed a little too close to Joe’s desk; papers went flying and Joe started cursing without a clue what he was cursing at. Barry didn't make his presence known though. He phased right through the door to Singh’s office. That caused a scene as he hit the brakes, a gust of wind sending up a small hedge of papers from the captain’s inbox. Thankfully, Singh had one of the most meticulous offices in the building and the Flash’s entrance wasn't too disruptive. Barry kind of needed to be on the man’s good side.

The captain startled, caught his desk to be sure it didn't try to fly at him too, and then caught sight of the Flash standing four feet in front of him. There was a beat of surprise, then momentary familiarity, and then suspicion.

“I suppose it's too much to ask that you make an appointment,” the man grumbled.

“We’re both rather busy guys, Captain. I figured just this once you could fit me in last-minute,” said the Flash. Singh arranged his desk and considered it a moment.

“Why do I get the feeling I know what this visit is about?” he asked.

The Flash grinned, shrugged as he crossed his arms. “I’d guess because you've talked to Joe West today and a few other people besides about the basics.”

“I've talked to a lot of people today. Are you going to tell me you've got a particular interest in any one case that's crossed my desk?” He squinted at the Flash, examining the suit. “That doesn't look real.”

“It is,” said the Flash. He had to hide his amusement at the Captain’s obvious suspicion. "And yes, I do. I can't exactly testify in Allen's defense, but I can tell you, directly, he was helping me contain the Snarts’ activities. It backfired. But he saved the lives of four security guards that night. And it is a bit of a problem leaving him in lockup."

That caught the man's attention quickly enough. It was like a light bulb switched on in his head and he sat up and on alert. He pointed a finger at the Flash, narrowed his eyes. "Wait. What- _Allen?"_

The Flash shrugged his shoulders to dismiss the accusation. "Allen's supposed to be in lockup getting scared straight because he's apparently the captain's favorite, people got jealous or something?”

Captain Singh basically wasn't hearing the words at all so Barry’s sarcasm went unnoticed. "Flash?"

The Accused nodded without hesitation. "Yes."

"Not Allen?" asked Singh. He was still trying to narrow it down for himself rather than trust his own senses. Barry sighed and shrugged it off.

"Don't ask, don't tell."

That was apparently enough of a clue and the Captain pointed at the door. He seemed suddenly nervous and surprised. "... I think you have places to be. Places that are _not_ my office. Out!"

 

****

 

“This is just a guess, but I don't think you made a new best friend or anything with your boss tonight,” said Oliver from under the big green hood. They were perched on a rooftop, looking down on the streets of Central City, making sure the bar below didn't have any problems at closing. There had been a lot of noise in that section and people had been rowdy, so the Green Arrow was worried it might get out of hand. Given Oliver’s personal familiarity with the bar scene, Barry said it was sound logic. They caught up as they watched from above.

“I think if anything the Flash lost a member of his fan club,” Barry agreed from beneath the cowl. “Singh’s never really liked me. I think it just spread to the hometown hero this time.”

“It should be enough to keep your job though,” Oliver said. “As long as he keeps his mouth shut about it. Which he will. Lance did. They don't get anywhere in the police force if they don't know how to prioritize risk assessment.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” The Flash crossed his arms, distracted by the conversation and trying not to show it.

“So in the meantime, you have to learn what to do with pent up energy, right?” said Oliver.

“If I break out every night, it won’t be a problem,” replied Barry, shrugging it off.

“That’s a big _if_. You aren’t doing yourself any favors gambling like that,” said Oliver. And he wasn’t exactly wrong, Barry didn’t have any solutions to the problem though.

“The best I’ve got is pushups, maybe?” he said. “Everything is open. There is no privacy at all so anything I do will be seen by a bunch of... well. Criminals. With nothing else to do but stare at each other.”

The green hood tilted enough to show a nod. “So... you have to go slower. Maybe you’ve trained to be fast, but have you ever learned to control by slowing things down?”

The Flash looked over at him, the thought that Oliver had lost his mind clear on his masked face. The Green Arrow smiled, smug.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he said. “We’ll work on that tomorrow.”

“Work on what?”

The question went unanswered as Cisco cracked over the comm. “Ten car pile up on Acker Street Bridge and there’s a high speed chase going after the guys who caused it...”

“That’s you,” said the Green Arrow. He waved out toward the rambunctious crowd below. “I’ll keep an eye on this.”

Barry flashed his friend a thankful smile and sped off over the rooftops.

 

****

 

Time was one of Barry’s enemies. After stopping the police chase with an easy jog and some fancy footwork, Flash got called to three other emergencies, and one more that the Green Arrow quietly helped out on. Their quiet night had gotten busy with fires, burglaries, and one structural collapse. Barry was tired by the time he had to get back to Iron Heights. He almost forgot to swap the Flash suit for the prison grays. Caitlin corrected him on that, along with adding in some chiding about lack of sleep. And she pointed out he was going to be late.

Even once he got to the prison, there was an extra slow down. The interior of Iron Heights was built like a maze, an extra deterrent for escape because a man without a map would get lost in the interior maintenance walk spaces between the blocks. When he had left the cell, Barry had marked the wall outside his cell with an X scratched on the brick, just to be sure he went back to the right place. Barry had shortcutted a lot of the maze just phasing through walls, but he knew getting back to his cell would be tricky without that small bit of foresight. It paid off. He made it back to his cell, with his particular criminal cellmate, rather than playing peekaboo with a dozen of the wrong kind first.

He was hardly two steps into the room before Snart hissed at him from the bottom bunk, “You’re late.”

“How do you know that?” Barry returned, defensive because he knew Snart was right. He went to the bunk beds and messed up the blankets so they no longer looked like they hid a sleeping body.

“They just sent someone by. Four AM patrol. _Three_ minutes ago,” Snart told him. Barry sighed, tucked his forehead to his arms against the top bunk.

“Maybe they were early?”

Snart stared up at him. “You’re _late_.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow never gets here,” snapped Snart. “You mean _today_.”

Barry jumped up on the bunk and decided to ignore his new roommate. It was better for his sanity and everyone’s safety.

 

****

 

Barry had managed maybe an hour of sleep before the block broke out in noise. The guards whistled and shouted and clanged batons across bars because it was time for breakfast. And so, because Barry was beyond starving, he woke up. Snart was comparatively bright eyed, because he had actually managed more than a nap overnight. He led the way out to the walkway in front of the cell. When Barry turned to head for the stairs, Snart caught his arm and pulled him back to his side. He pulled him up to the yellow line in front of the handrail in front of their cell.

“Wait for count,” he advised. Barry looked around, saw all the men emerging from the cells, standing on the yellow line in front of their cells, across three levels. It was intimidating. There were some scary guys in the crowd, men Barry had met before as the Flash, or seen escorted through the police department. He knew some of them by their crimes. The sight was enough to take a hit on his appetite. But when the count was done, the lines moved somewhat orderly across the room to get to breakfast.

The cafeteria was located outside of the block, down a hallway that connected to checkpoints that filtered through who was allowed to access the prison library, the infirmary, and visitation. There were two blocks with access to the yard and to the services in the prison, each one feeding through their own hallway at their own designated time. The breakfast hour was so early for the C-block, where Barry and Snart were located, because they had only an hour to get through the massive line, eat their food, and then make it out to the yard. C-block had the yard for an hour after their meal, then they would have to go back to their cells to allow B-block access to the cafeteria and then the yard. It was a four hour process, according to Snart, and then it would start all over for their lunch hour shift.

“Which one is A-block then?” Barry asked. The only one he was at least somewhat familiar with was the M-Block, where the dangerous enough to be locked up metas were housed for their sentences when Argus didn’t need to get involved. That was a topic Barry was carefully avoiding.

“The hard-luck cases, the bad guys,” Snart said, amused. “Isolation block is on A-block. Those waiting on death penalty sentences. They don’t see daylight much. But _their_ meals are catered.”

“Yeah, proper five-star hotel service, huh?” Barry turned his nose up at the hashbrown patties on his plate. He had been able to get as much food as he wanted, which was a good thing with his metabolism, but the food didn’t look all that appetising. Still, he ate it. He could be picky about food when he broke out again that night. Just to be sure he was covered to lunch, he wrapped some of the food in a napkin so he could pocket it, have it with him for the morning.

“Let’s go,” Snart announced when he was done eating. Barry looked at his own plate, not quite empty, and scowled. He cheated, crowded food into his mouth with more speed than he should have around witnesses, and still managed to stand up just behind Snart. He was shown where the trays were to be put, and which of the doors out of the cafeteria went to the yard.

The yard was another world. Barry had only ever seen it from outside of the fences and that was bad enough. From the inside, everything was sharp, pointed edges. Barbed wire and armed guards with very big guns. The towers at the end held shadows and the long shiny barrels of mounted sniper rifles. They didn't have armed patrols marching the parapets but it was the chain-link equivalent. For Barry, used to tall buildings and the open spaces of city parks and waterways, it was a maze of metal cattle runs in an upside world. For all that the once-familiar campus of the prison now made no sense, he might as well have been following around a little white rabbit, listening to it complain that they were late. Len was the closest he had to that.

There were different sections to the yard, where different activities happened. A basketball court, a corner with weights and weight benches, and a big open grassy area where most of the grass had died off to brown patches. Benches, tables and bleachers were positioned in random places to allow for people to meander and sit in the sun. After being awake all night, Barry wanted a nap as his breakfast settled, but he followed Snart around the yard, getting introduced to people as the cop Snart had dragged into The Life.

It didn’t make Barry any friends.

“What the hell are you doing with a cop, Lenny?” a rat-faced thief named Silver asked, showing bold disapproval compared to those who just glared and refused to talk around Barry.

“I needed a tech guy for the gig, and this one _volunteered_ ,” Snart said. Silver squinted over at Barry.

“What, they don’t pay enough as cops?” he asked. Barry felt his temper flare but he kept it shelved; Snart was enjoying it too much to give him the pleasure. Not to mention the fact that Barry would get his face pounded in if he told the truth.

“I was bored,” Barry said. He tried to shrug it off. “I figured we’d get away with it if I could clean up the case afterward, and then Snart had to go and shoot his dad, make a scene...”

“Drama queen! Ha ha!” Silver backhanded Snart’s shoulder, laughing like he believed it. Snart’s expression said he didn’t appreciate Barry’s adlibbing.

“The gun’s tech was overcharged. I need to check the connections when I get it back,” he said as a cover.

“Right. The _gun_ did it,” said Barry. Snart forced a laugh and slung an arm over Barry’s shoulder, tucking him close as a warning to shut up.

“I’ve already seen you die once this week, it shouldn’t hurt too bad to take you out myself,” Len reminded him whispering in his ear.

“So you _do_ care,” Barry returned, a mirror of the sarcasm. Len actually laughed but Barry only heard it because the man held him so close in his space. The humor seemed to work and Len loosened his hold a little. Feeling strangely like he had done something right, Barry obliged, feeling smug as he smiled.

But it seemed to work toward their grander scheme; Silver stuck with them, schmoozing with other people they encountered on the yard, helping sell Barry’s presence as a harmless dirty cop. More people tolerated the cop in their midst after those introductions and Snart backed off on keeping Barry on so tight a leash. He let Barry wander more than five feet away without waving him over. Barry was able to sit on his own on the bleachers without being stared at, just another face in the crowd.

But he still knew he was being watched. The story didn’t win over the hearts and minds of all the people in the yard in that hour outside in the cold. It seemed to clarify lines around Snart, who was on the man’s associates list and who saw him as a threat. Barry was on the outside, looking in, and it was pretty obvious to him who Snart would go to for future jobs and who he wouldn’t. A part of him paid attention because this was only a ten day stay in Iron Heights, a temporary trip to the upside down Wonderland with his little bossy rabbit. He would be back to his life as a cop and would need to know _who else_ to look out for next time a suspicious case came along.

Another part of him paid attention because he might be there longer than ten days. He would need to know who Snart could convince to leave him alone and who would go after the loose pig in the yard. Those first meetings were big clues. Barry was tired, but he paid attention to faces, watched body language of the men around him. And he watched the way Snart behaved around some of them, noticed when he stood between Barry and the new faces, or when he would step back and let Barry sink or swim on his own in conversation. It was nerve wracking to keep track of, like being stuck at a party full of people he didn’t know; he wasn’t cool enough to be at that party and had to figure out who was going to bash his face in to prove it some time.

****


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *when you post shit just to stop adding to it*  
> 0:)
> 
> ******

As promised, the lunch hour process repeated itself at eleven am on the nose. The cell doors opened, Barry and Snart stood on the line to be counted, and then they stood in line to get food and go outside. Lunch wasn't much more interesting than breakfast, but it was a little easier to wrap up in a napkin to save for later. Prison burgers were not a match for Big Belly Burgers. Barry didn't make that observation out loud, though. Just stuffed the food in his face while he had access to it.

When Snart decided it was time to leave, Barry dawdled, testing the boundaries of the leash. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate that Snart was holding to his promise to keep Barry safe, but he definitely didn't like feeling like an eager puppy chasing the man around, either.

He saw people staring and heard the comments starting already. Barry Allen was his own man, not somebody’s bitch, cherry, or follower. He had never been offended by being called a pig before, either, because within the police department, they owned that word themselves, a joke they embraced. It was entirely different hearing it sneered from the mouth of someone who wanted him dead. So somewhere along the way, Barry knew, he would have to stand on his own and not in Snart’s shadow if he wanted to keep his pride.

“Hey, pretty,” a stranger greeted, sitting down where Len had just left. Barry looked up from his not-yet-abandoned plate, surprised. He glanced around, saw that Snart had stopped and looked back. He didn't say anything, just waited, a look of something like curiosity on his face. But he wasn't happy with the unknown twist, either. It was up to Barry to figure out if he wanted to make a new friend or not, Snart wasn't weighing in on that, apparently. Given the man’s first words were about his looks, Barry figured he’d take a pass on that one. He finished up the last fries on his plate and stood.

“Aww, why you gotta be like that? You seemed so friendly, too,” the man said, still talking at Barry as he turned away.

“Busy,” Barry replied. He was flailing his way through the niceties of prison and felt like he was too uneducated for the pop quiz. “Not interested.”

There was some laughter and a few additional comments that followed Barry to the door. All the same, Snart waited for him. Grabbed him by the elbow if he acted like he wanted to wander off. It was a clear message that it wasn't safe, though Barry had no way to know just whose safety Snart was worried for. So he hung around Snart, sat quietly as the man was approached in the yard by those who wished to welcome him back to the prison. Nobody called him anything other than his name, though.

“How long are you gonna be here for this time?” someone asked. Snart smiled mildly, shrugged it off.

“I like to keep them guessing. Maybe I’ll stay awhile,” he said.

“Your old man says he's out in three weeks tops,” the stranger reported. He nodded at Barry. “Says he's taking your boyfriend with him.”

“He can try,” said Snart.

Barry scowled at the bench in front of him, kicked it to get mud off his soft new shoes. “Also? Not the boyfriend.”

“Well, that wasn't exactly the word Snart used,” the man laughed.

Barry felt a shove against his shoulder, looked over at Snart. “Words, Barry. Everything's got a label.”

Barry nodded but dismissed it. He wasn't stupid. He saw the image and reputation Snart tried to maintain in the yard. And he knew well enough it was at least in part at Barry’s expense.

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” Barry announced. It was as much a protest as declaration of freedom. Not to mention he had energy to burn. Snart huffed in amusement but didn't say anything to it. Barry set his sights on the bank of payphones not far away for his trial solo adventure.

The _existence_ of the payphones amused him, just pieces of archaic history, alive and well in a prison, because the prison was the _only_ place they were still used. When he got there, he waited in line, idle and in no hurry. He was wasting time, testing out his independence, checking out the environment of this new corner of the world. So, when it was his turn, naturally, he called Joe West.

Because Barry Allen needed an _adult_ to remind him he was doing alright.

“Barry? What's wrong?” came Joe’s voice as soon as the charges were accepted on the other end of the line.

“I think prison food is crap,” Barry replied. “And I feel like a bleeding animal in a shark tank.”

“That might be because it is and you are,” Joe said. He sounded a little relieved. “So I guess that means you're okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I wanted to talk to a human who doesn't think I’m a trash cop or the Snarts’ bitch. Lewis Snart’s sending it around that he’ll be out soon and he's taking me out before he leaves.”

“What about the other one?”

“He’s showing me the ropes. He just likes having a shadow. Looks good for him that he's got a cop hanging on his pocket,” Barry replied.

“Say _what_?”

Barry sighed and scrubbed at his face. “We’re cellmates, Joe. And I go everywhere he goes. That's just what it looks like so the talk’s gotten started already.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. He’s helping me figure this place out.” As if it was some kind of cosmic invitation, Barry looked up to see Lewis Snart heading his way. That couldn't be a good thing. The man wore a sling from the damage caused by the cold gun, and he was overweight and lumbering compared to Barry’s trim speed. Lewis himself wasn't a threat without a weapon. It was the small crowd that moved with him, five guys of varying age and size who probably played backup. “Oh crap. For real?”

“What crap?” asked Joe through the phone. Barry stood up from his lean against the phone bank.

“The usual kind,” he said, not wanting to explain. “I gotta get back. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“You’d better. And hey. We love you, Baer. Be careful.”

“I’m trying,” was all Barry said before hanging up. He didn't have time to say anything more. The first tendrils of Lewis's cloud of trouble reached out and shoved him away from the phone stand. Barry moved just to stay out of reach, then regretted it when he got shoved again and ended up with his back to a chainlink fence. That wasn't good.

_No speeding, no speeding..._ Barry had to remind himself to _ignore_ instinct at this point, and when he moved to swipe at the first hand that reached out to catch him, it was ineffective because he didn't know how to control his strength to match that of an ordinary person's. His effort at defense was knocked away and Snart’s henchman got right in Barry’s face, a hand around his neck to hold him against the chainlink. Barry pried at fingers to pull the hand away just enough not to get choked. It didn't matter much because no other attack came, he just held Barry there and laughed about it.

“Shut up,” Lewis Snart growled at his flunky. He shoved the man over so he could face Barry.

“What the hell are you doing in here with my boy?” Lewis wanted to know. Barry caught his breath and stalled, tried to get his feet under him. But Leonard Snart didn't show up to answer his dad’s question.

“We told you. I worked with him before. So we’re friends,” Barry said, trying not to trip on the word.

“Bullshit. He doesn't work with friends,” said Lewis. Barry shook his head.

“You don't know him so good,” he said. “He _only_ works with friends. Anybody who leaves gets taken out.”

“He didn't even know your real name,” growled Lewis.

“No, _you_ didn't know my name. He didn't think you’d want to work with another cop, so I didn't use my name,” Barry returned.

“Bullshit-”

“Nah, what's bullshit is you had to put a _bomb_ in your daughter’s neck to get him to work with you at all, right? Len will work with a cop before he'll work with you. That's _gotta_ piss you off,” said Barry. He had a good idea how the court of public opinion worked in prison, and the knights who guarded it answered to no one. It was time to take some shots at Lewis’ armor. “It's bullshit you couldn't get anyone to sign on to your team because you kill everyone you work with so the best help Len could find was another _cop_ who had to clean up after your messes.”

Lewis stepped back, red faced and angry. He couldn't retaliate properly with one arm immobilized so he waved his flunkies’ attention to Barry again. “ _Hurt_ him.”

Barry figured it had to be a good thing that the order was to hurt and not kill. He tensed to take a blow and prepare to dodge.

“Hey _pops_... call off your dogs. I don’t feel like sharing my toys today,” came Leonard Snart’s voice into the mix, stalling the attack. He smoothly put a hand on Barry’s shoulder to pull him from the fence. The strangers doing Lewis’ bidding backed off, because nobody messed with his kids except Lewis.

“I’ve been getting an education, son,” said Lewis. The man was most definitely angry. He waved toward Barry. “Always interesting to learn that my boy would rather work with a cop than his own father.”

“Fascinating, right?” said Len, smiling in the face of it. “The family _drama_. Crazy that I might get a bit _pissed_ _off_ when you go and put a _bomb_ in my little sister, hmm? Funny that I could trust another cop to help keep her _safe_ when I couldn't just count on you to do the job without doing something _stupid_.”

“You need to learn how the world works, my boy,” said Lewis. Len just shook his head, squeezed Barry’s shoulder and tugged on him like an old friend.

“Nah, Dad. I know how the world works. I make a plan, it goes sideways on me, like my friend Barry here. I adjust the plan. I _don't blow the whole thing up_ when it _pisses me off_ ,” said Len. He still looked completely at ease, pointed at his dad. “That's what I learned from you, Dad. To control my _temper_. I don’t always want to break my toys.”

Lewis actually laughed at that, still angry but apparently accepting the hint. Len worked with it. He slung an arm over Barry’s shoulders to further pull him from the group.

“So to save your blood pressure, pops, let me worry about my cop-friend, alright? You just heal up, get back in fighting form,” Len said. He patted Barry on the chest, a bit rough but tolerable and trying to sell something Barry could understand. “I’ll keep this one out of everyone’s business. Take one for the team and all that.”

“I’m miserable company,” Barry chimed in, sarcasm the safest defense at that moment. “He’s really making the sacrifice here.”

“Shut up, fish,” said Len. There was a quiet patience to the order, none of the anger that Barry had been expecting, so he obliged.

“Why are you throwing in with him?” Snart wanted to know. His son shrugged it off.

“I have a dozen plans for when things go sideways, pops. He's just one of them.”

That was hardly news to Barry and he tried to ignore it. Len had basically said as much to him the night they were arrested. But he put on a scowl because he guessed it was the appropriate response to convince Lewis Snart of his son’s more nefarious intent. Somehow Len was trying to keep the peace with his angry father. It wasn't in Barry’s best interest to start wars in prison so he followed Len’s lead. Even though he hated looking and feeling like he was being played for the fool.

Len’s plan worked. Lewis backed off as Len pulled Barry aside. On the other side of the yard, the guards started making noise that it was time to go in. So they went in, Len walking Barry in with an arm still slung over his shoulder. He didn't say anything about it until they were back in their cell.

“You did good,” Len said, nodding out toward the yard. “Keep that up.”

He stood against the wall as Barry jumped up on the upper bunk, unloaded what food he had left out of his pockets.

“I guess if _good_ just means I didn't get my ass kicked, yeah, sure,” Barry said.

“In this case, yeah. You didn't get your ass kicked, you didn't kiss anyone's ass, you kept your head. It worked. With him, for now, that's what you do,” Len replied.

“I don't know what I can say to him, man. I just popped off-”

“You can say what you want. He's not going to believe you. He's too arrogant and hotheaded to care,” said Len.

It struck Barry then that Len was being quiet. His voice didn't hold that loud, nasally pitch that he had been using since his dad showed up. He wasn't trying to be obnoxious, like his dad. Len _wasn't_ his dad. He just had to be a chip off the old block when they were around people who knew it. Like a disguise, like Barry did behind the mask, adding extra vibe to his voice so he wouldn't be recognized. Len did the same thing when he wasn't safe.

“Okay,” Barry said. “Here’s hoping I don't screw up whatever your plans are with him then.”

Len smirked at that, shook his head. “I'd like to see you try.”

“What about your plans with me? Since you just said you had some,” Barry asked. Len moved forward then, crossed his arms on the edge of Barry’s bed and looked up at him.

“I have you figured out, Barry. I know what makes you tick, the same as I know Lewis. There is not a single thing you could throw at me that I haven't already accounted for,” Len told him. “So if you want to try, alright. _Try me._ But you can't surprise me.”

His voice didn't change at all, just the calm drawl that had tricked Barry into buying his dinner at the bar earlier that week. And his smile never wavered. He had Barry figured out, and he was counting on that. Barry figured he knew what that felt like. He shook his head and smiled despite himself.

 

****

 

After a few short naps throughout the day, Barry was ready to work that night. He busted out the same way as before, moved silent and unseen through the back maintenance halls of the prison, and hit the open air with gratitude. He didn't slow down until he suited up, the prison blues on the dummy in the corner.

“Any news?” Barry asked the startled Caitlin and Cisco. “On anything?”

“Man. That is so cool,” Cisco said, rolling his chair forward to catch a high five from Barry. “ _Prison_ can't hold you.”

“It's actually kind of alarming,” said Caitlin. “What are we supposed to do to protect people when metahumans can get around a high security prison without trying?”

“Buzzkill,” muttered Cisco.

“Argus handles the long term sneaky metahumans,” Barry reminded her. “If I ever go crazy, that's where Oliver puts me. I worked that out already.”

“Damn, double buzzkill,” said Cisco. He slumped in his chair and scowled at his computer screens.

“Speaking of... is the Green Arrow already out there tonight or-”

“He had a mayor-thing. It's just you tonight, buddy,” Cisco replied. “If you didn't show, I was just going to hologram you in and out of places to make sure there were a few eye-witness reports while you’re gone.”

“The Central City Police Department _can_ actually handle things on their own sometimes,” Caitlin pointed out.

Barry harrumphed at that. “I used to agree. But CCPD gave us Lewis Snart, and put me and my dad in jail, so I’m losing a little faith.”

“Don't tell Dad you said that,” came Iris West’s voice into the mix. Barry looked over his shoulder to see his family walk in the cortex.

“Oops,” Joe chimed in. Barry sagged a little, disappointed that his opinion had been heard.

“Sorry. It’s just been a kind of enlightening few days...” he said. Joe nodded, moved in to wrap Barry in a hug.

“Tell me about it,” said Iris, arms crossed as she supervised the family reunion. “Imagine my _surprise_ when Caitlin informed me _Flash_ still plans on making the nightly rounds and I should make sure he gets an article in over the next few days.”

“I can't just disappear, guys...” Barry said. Joe shifted out of the hug to wrap his arm around Barry’s neck instead, dragging the young man in the Flash suit down to knuckle his head.

“One accident and you are beyond buried and in over your head,” Joe added in. “Not only is the gig up on the identity thing, you’re automatically on the hook for escape, whether they clear your name or not...”

“I know, I know!” Barry tugged free from his dad, absently tried to fix his hair.

“Uh huh. And! You didn't call me back,” Joe said. Barry nodded, hugged Iris as an afterthought as his attention shifted problems.

“Snart showed up. Lewis, I mean. He really means it about taking me out. Made effort number one when I hung up with you. Len had to bail me out.”

“Good. After what you did, he owes you that and then some,” said Joe.

Barry nodded. “You pulled strings to put me in with him, didn't you?”

“Damn straight I did. He dragged you into their little family drama-”

“Technically Lisa did,” Cisco pointed out. The pen in his hand drew a circle in the air around his face. “Because of this. Right here.”

Joe arched a very judgmental eyebrow. “So you’re saying it should be you in the can instead of my kid? ‘Cause I can arrange that...”

“Nosir.” Cisco stopped the smug grin and turned quickly back to his computers. Joe turned his attention back to Barry.

“As I was saying. He got you into the trouble. He can get you through it. I don't care if you use him as a human meat shield, it's his fault you’re there so he's your way out, I figure,” said Joe.

Something in Joe’s words kicked at Barry’s brain. “That's how we do it,” he said. “Laurel needs to talk to Len. Can she- well, yeah. She can. Len’s how we get me out of this.”

The disconnected ramble was met by a few expressions of concern. Iris at least was convinced Barry had lost his mind. Caitlin looked worried he was suffering a stroke and checked the vitals report from his suit.

“Baer... It was the Snarts who pointed Johnson at you in the first place,” said Joe. “Laurel can talk to Leonard until she falls over from old age and he won't tell her the truth.”

“But Laurel knows the truth,” Barry insisted. “She knows what questions to ask. She just has to get him on the record and ask them. He’ll lie to Johnson to back up Lewis, because Lewis is his dad. He’s _afraid_ of his dad, Joe. Him and Lisa both. They hate him, but they’re afraid of him. Asking him questions... might work. Just yes or no questions, that's how he gets around it.”

“I mean, you can ask Laurel about it, but...” Joe shrugged, shook his head. He held his hands out, unsure what else to say. “He's a liar and a thief. A murderer. Good luck getting him to change his story, Baer.”

“Maybe. I can ask,” said Barry. “I mean, what's it hurt to ask, right?”

 

****


	7. Chapter 7

“No way in hell.”

Okay, so the answer wasn't entirely unexpected. But Barry had to try. He sat on the floor of their cell as Len sat on the edge of the bunk. The man was awake, engaged in the discussion, arms on his knees and hands clasped as he gave Barry his full attention. They were both carefully quiet, determined not to be heard outside their cell. Oblivious to cellblock etiquette, Barry had hung his bed sheet up over the bars to dampen their voices further. And, no matter how amused he was by it, Len seemed absolutely certain that Barry was wasting their time.

“Are you sure?” Barry asked, scrounging for the winning sales pitch. “Because otherwise you’re potentially stuck with me popping in and out of the wall everyday for the next who knows how long. And you lose your blackmailed contact within the police department-”

“It’s adorable you think you’re the only one I’ve got.” Len sounded amused by the suggestion. That was concerning but Barry forced himself not to worry about it just then.

“And you lose your _get out of jail free_ card with your favorite scarlet speedster-”

“That’s slowly losing its appeal anyway.” Again, Len sounded amused more than annoyed.

“You are the only potential witness I’ve got,” Barry whispered at him. “And you promised to-”

“I promised to help on the yard,” Len said. “That does not in _any universe_ extend to the courtroom.”

“What about a written statement?”

“Already gave one of those,” Len reminded him. “And it matches the one my father gave. Because I’m not _stupid_. I don't _snitch_ on my father. Nobody does unless they wanna get dead.”

“What if we found Lisa then?” Barry asked. “What if Cisco got her to testify-”

That was a line Barry hadn't meant to cross. Len took a knee right in front of him, caught him by the front of his shirt to pull him off the wall. It was enough to surprise and intimidate but not enough to hurt. It worked. Barry stared at Len, eye to eye, unconsciously holding his breath.

“My sister went to you for help. That means you _help_. And then you _move on_. You don't drag her back to get hurt again. We clear on that?”

“Yep! We’re good!” Barry squawked a little but he was at least quiet about it. “It was just an idea.”

“A bad one,” Len replied. But he let go of Barry’s shirt. He still knelt in his space, not to scare but because they were quiet. Apparently the space bubble had gotten a little smaller again. “You do whatever your lawyer says you have to. Get out of here. But you leave my family out of it.”

“That’s the problem, man. Your family dragged me into it. We don't know how-”

Len still stared at him in the darkened cell. “Then figure it out.”

“How? Give me something.”

“I won't testify,” said Len. “So don't ask again.”

Barry rolled his eyes and pulled his knees up, blocking his cellmate out of his space again. He had hoped for a better outcome, but it wasn't like he hadn't expected Len’s answer. He understood it, mostly. But there was something that bugged him about it.

“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” he asked. “Sure, I get it, you won't flip on family. But you want me stuck in here, the same as you.”

Len’s expression tensed again. “Nope. You complicate things.”

“That’s hilarious, a real riot,” said Barry, not really feeling amused. “Like how?”

“Like I gave my word to help you in here. Otherwise I’d be gone by next week,” replied Len. That surprised Barry and he stared at the man. Len shrugged it off. “I told you, you don't need to be dead yet. And this place would eat you alive without help.”

Barry frowned at him. “No it wouldn't.”

“Really?” Len arched an eyebrow, barely visible in the shadows. He shifted enough to point at the sheet hanging from the bars. “Tell me what that means in here and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Means- it means something? It's a _sheet_.”

Len smirked at him. “It means the _occupants_ don't wish to be _disturbed_. Or, if this is easier for you, if the bunk's rockin’, don't come knockin’,” he drawled.

“Oh crap!” Barry went wide eyed and scrabbled to collect the sheet down again. Len stayed out of his way, backed up onto his part of the bunk again.

“Don't quit your night-job, Scarlet,” he advised. Barry scowled at the upper bunk as he went about trying to make it usable again. He could have kicked himself over the stupid sheet; he should have known better. The worst part was that he could feel his cheeks practically glowing pink. Thank god it was still dark. Maybe he could still catch an hour of sleep and forget it ever happened.

 

****

 

The routine went the same on Barry’s third day in Iron Heights. He stood at the line to be counted amongst the criminals, went to breakfast in a somewhat orderly fashion, and went outside to burn off the food. He didn't feel very chatty with his cellmate. They were at an impasse on an issue that was more or less the biggest one Barry had tackled in awhile, given that he needed his freedom to tackle any other big thing that waited for him. Like Zoom. Like the irregularities. Thankfully for two nights in a row, those had been quiet. There was no telling how long it would last.

And Leonard Snart was still too afraid of his father to tell the truth in court.

The thought had occurred to Barry to bust Len out for five minutes, show him one of the cosmic rips in spacetime to make sure the man understood what they were dealing with. Maybe give him some context for what was out there that was scarier than Lewis Snart. It just didn't seem fair, aside from the fact that Len probably wouldn't care. It wasn't his problem. Len still dealt with the world of normal humans, of Iron Heights and not Argus or metahumans. Like he had said, it was on Barry to figure out how to fix it.

They didn't have a lot to chat about. They weren't friends. Len’s only interest in helping Barry was, somehow, keeping his word. So there was nothing saying they had to talk to each other. Barry stayed in his own worries and didn't interact with Len’s world unless he had to.

Until Silver showed up. He tossed a basketball at Barry’s head. “You play, cop?”

Barry caught it, tossed it back. “For real? You know, does it matter at all that I’m a CSI?”

“A what?” Silver shot the ball back at him. Barry relented and moved out toward the faded court.

“Crime Scene Investigator? I’m one of the science nerds who look at blood? I don't arrest people,” he said. Silver shrugged it off, moved to block Barry’s access to the hoop that had long since lost its chain-link net.

“So? You're still a pig. You want I should call you fish like the other new fish?” he asked.

“My name,” Barry said. He bounced the basketball off Silver’s forehead. “Works fine.” As the crook tried to catch up with the ringing in his brain, Barry took the shot over his shoulder.

“Dead. Imma call you Dead,” Silver decided. He chased after the ball rather than go after Barry though and their two-player game was on.

Within a few minutes, they had gathered a small crowd and a few extra players. Len supervised from the bleachers, a book in his hand, as Barry got to do something that was almost normal for once. He had to be careful not to burn through too much speed, but he did cheat a little. Landed every single shot he got to take, a perfect spin to every throw. He shoved, shoulder-checked, dodged, and crashed to the ground on his ass a couple of times. Everyone wanted their chance at him, but Barry kept it about the game.

“And now you're a sweaty, dirty pig,” Silver happily informed Barry after about twenty minutes of the game. The smaller thief wasn't as much of a target with the new players that came on board as Barry was, so his game play had been much easier and a lot less work. Most of Barry’s concentration had been on avoiding fights. With Silver, Barry was just playing around, the game was fun. Everyone else was another story.

“Better than a dead one,” Barry said. And then he stole the ball from the gloating thief and dribbled it a few steps, shoving Silver aside to take the shot. Silver crashed hard as the ball swept into the hoop; Barry hadn't been paying attention to his speed when he had surprised Silver, had used a little too much force behind the push to his chest. He was winded when Barry checked up on him, but he took the offer to help him back to his feet.

“Sorry, man... You okay?” Barry’s concern was met with a nod and stubborn look of neutrality. Then suddenly Barry was knocked off his feet by someone a little bigger. It was clear retaliation, he didn't have the ball, and he was shoved away from Silver. Barry went sprawling and had to pick himself up. From the bleachers, Len stopped reading his book to monitor the game again. Barry looked around at the players all watching his reaction, waiting for the fight. He held his hands out, shrugged it off.

“Are we still playing? Or what?”

The crowd grumbled and let him back in the game.

Silver had picked up six guys on his team as they played, Barry only three other outcasts who didn't mind losing. It didn’t go well when the guards called for the end of yard time and Barry’s team was up by three points. There were no trophies for the effort, just a surprisingly good game for all the bruises Barry racked up. And a lot of hard feelings about it.

Barry tried to keep a low profile as he walked back toward the cellblock. He wasn’t quite to the doors when someone behind him kicked him in the back of the leg. Soft shoes hit hard. He folded like a deck of cards as his knee gave out from an old injury that even his hyper system had never quite accommodated for. In a crowd of people, he hit the ground and had to look around for an attacker as the crowd still moved around him to line up.

Just ahead of him, a fight seemed to break out, not a lot of shouting but a definite ripple in the flow of traffic toward the gates. Barry had to monitor that noise and also get himself up and out of harm’s way before he got kicked or walked on or tripped others; with another fight already going, the guards would see him as a potential problem rather than an injury. It was actually Silver who helped him back up to his feet and held him steady as he waited for his leg to take weight again.

It was a matter of seconds it seemed like, maybe a minute, before Len showed up. He had a line of red over his eye but didn't acknowledge the cut when Barry asked about it. Len told Silver to get to his place in line, promised that he would get Barry up the stairs. Captain Cold was angry but he swept in to take care of Barry like somebody whose dog had been kicked. He kept Barry ahead of him in line as it narrowed down from two-by-two to single file at the stairs, even helped him up the stairs. Barry’s leg was back to normal about the time he hit the cell gate.

“What’d you do to your eye?” Barry asked once they were closed up inside their cell. “You were fine on the bleachers.”

“I saw what happened to your leg,” Len replied. “I had to be sure it didn't happen again.”

Barry sat on his bunk, shocked stupid for a moment. “You- _what_?” he asked. “Who did it?”

“Doesn't matter. Next time, notice who comes at you. It's an important _life skill_ ,” said Len. Barry stared over at him, confused.

“That's nice and all, but doesn't it matter who it was if I’m supposed to fight my own battles? If I don't know who to look for-”

Len crossed his arms on the bunk, speaking quiet so Barry would follow his example. “I took care of this one. It's settled.”

“What, I get a freebie?”

“No, Barry,” Len said, rolling his eyes. “I said I would look out for you here. You have my protection. There's a small window for retaliation. You were down, I moved.”

Barry frowned. He wasn't used to other people fighting his battles for him. He wasn't used to owing favors to people who weren't friends. In prison, both of those things seemed like very bad ideas. “Okay, wait-”

“Nope.”

Barry dropped down from the bunk, not liking things he didn't understand being dismissed from discussion. Len stared at him over his elbow, arms still crossed on the bunk.

“Someone tried to take you down, I informed them not to do it again. There is nothing hard to understand. Simple.”

“Except it's _not_ ,” Barry insisted. “Because I’m me and you're you and we're _here_. And you just sent a big message to _everyone_ here not to touch me. And the thing yesterday with your dad- that kind of stuff has consequences, last I knew.”

“It does. If anyone messes with you, they get me. Cause and effect.”

“For real? You are not getting it,” said Barry. He pointed at the gate. “I can't hang a sheet without it _meaning_ something here. What the hell’s it mean when you start fighting my battles.”

“It means you can't fight for yourself,” said Len. “Which you can't, Barry. Not without _Scarlet_ jumping in and saving you. You can't even play basketball without cheating. Metas get sent to M-ward, no questions asked. So you _can't_ fight here.”

The man wasn't exactly wrong, but the surprising source of wisdom chafed. Barry didn't want treated like a kid. He was handling himself pretty well. Now everyone out there, prisoners and guards alike, thought he was some fragile pet that had to be protected. It implied, in the yard, that he was property. And to the point, he was _Len’s_ property. It was a step further than Barry had been prepared to take his request for help inside Iron Heights. And the worst part was that he couldn't just wave a hand and make it be gone, couldn’t make people treat him like a capable human on his own. He had to rely on Len. Len had just sent that signal out to everyone, loud and clear, and even Barry noticed.

It was, considering the source, surprisingly honorable. But it put Barry in a weird spot. Leonard Snart wasn't exactly a shining pillar of virtue, looking out for the interests of his fellow man naturally. There was always a catch, a motive, a bigger game. Barry didn't know what to do with it, another mess of his own making.

“Thanks, I guess,” he said, deciding to take Len’s decision at face value. He waved between them. “I can fight, though. I can figure it out.”

“It's easier this way,” Len replied. “Trust me.”

Barry tilted his head, seeing the man’s slight grin. “You know you are, like, one of the least trustworthy people in this entire place, right?”

“And yet you do... You’re _welcome_.” The grin broadened into a smile and Len clapped a hand to Barry’s shoulder, a subtle mockery of congratulations. Then he pulled his book out of his pocket and dropped down onto his bed to read, the matter settled. Barry glared at the ceiling before jumping onto the upper bunk. The world outside their cell was noise that crept in again, men whistling off tune at different songs, people talking, people calling across at each other, people banging noises against the bars of their cells.

“By the way,” Len called up. “After that game, you stink. Might want to take care of that before it takes over in here.”

Barry scowled at the ceiling. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

He’d be damned if he’d let Snart try dictating at him about his personal hygiene now, too.

****


	8. Chapter 8

The downside of having a mayoral candidate from another city as backup in fighting crime was that the candidate was expected to show up for fundraisers. Barry felt like he was in over his head in Iron Heights and would have really appreciated Oliver’s advice on things, but it just wasn't an option.

Another part of him, the arguably more irrational side, wanted to keep it all to himself. He didn’t need advice, he could make his own calls. He was a capable adult, he was called a superhero by some in Central City, and he even had an adult beverage loaded with enough caffeine to stun a horse named after him. None of that would indicate that he needed protected, by a criminal, in prison. Barry could handle things himself. What he couldn't handle, he had a team of people he trusted for back up. Leonard Snart was not on that team. He couldn't be trusted. There was always an angle.

That afternoon, Len had taught Barry how to do his own laundry in the cell so basketball games didn't follow him into a tiny room with airflow stifled between cinder blocks. It bothered Barry that the only ulterior motive he could find for that suddenly important life lesson was that Len didn't want to deal with a stinky roommate.

It bothered Barry _more_ that he had to think of ulterior motives behind _clean laundry_ suddenly. It wasn't how Barry preferred to interact with the world, suspicious and cold. But his time in lock up left him angry, agitated, and paranoid when he hit the streets at night. The freedom of the run didn't feel like freedom, there was no self-direction or control in what was really just an escape. Especially when it was only a temporary one; he had just a few hours to patrol the town and then go back inside. The looming deadline of returning to prison made the frustration worse.

Even Cisco noticed Barry’s attitude shift. “You okay, man?” he asked after watching Barry’s patrol run on the monitors. Apparently the silence was unusual. Barry wanted to defend himself from the implication that he talked too much, but he didn't.

“I’m fine,” was all he said.

“Riiiight. Okay then,” said Cisco over the comm. “Well, in that case. How about a meta-hunt? This dude’s been popping up all afternoon, little stuff, all over the map around the college downtown.”

“What's his deal?” Barry asked.

“We don't know exactly,” Caitlin said. “The first report was a doctor this afternoon who couldn't exactly figure out how he had lost his paycheck between the ATM and his car a hundred feet away. Another report was that somebody got their purse stolen but they didn't see who had done it or notice it at all until the purse was gone.”

“Where?”

“Last sighting was in the business district at rush hour. Quitin’ time. Given what people were saying happened then, I’d bet he shows up near the college campus over the next few hours,” said Cisco. “But that's just a hunch.”

“What? Why?” asked Caitlin. Cisco sounded smug, the nerd scientist playing detective.

“College campus... Friday night... there’s going to be a lot of cash around the bars down there, and a bunch of drunk kids won't exactly be watching their wallets.”

Barry found a new level of frustration with his life then. “So what am I even looking for?”

“The Pick Pocket.”

There was a long pause as Cisco let his newest naming masterpiece settle in. Apparently Caitlin didn't think much of it because, although she didn't say anything, Cisco started defending his logic like her expression spoke volumes.

“What?” Cisco said. “Don't give me that face. I dare you to come up with better.”

Caitlin could be a bit judgey at times, but Barry didn't quite think Cisco had done a good enough job defending his idea.

“It's a bit on the nose, Cisco,” he said. “And it gives me absolutely no idea of what I'm looking for.”

“Yeah, sorry, man. We don't have much on that front. It's like the guy’s invisible or something,” said Cisco. There was a pause, and then... “Oh snap! What if he's invisible? What if that's why nobody notices anything? I mean, that would be something, huh? Damn... Barry, maybe he's not at the bars. Maybe he's at the dorms.”

“Excuse me?” Caitlin sounded offended.

“He's invisible right? What's the first thing they show in every movie with somebody invisible: the women’s locker room.” Cisco concluded. “The _Pervy_ Pick Pocket.”

“Oh my god,” muttered Caitlin. Despite himself and his own bad attitude that night, Barry grinned.

“How much coffee have ya had, Cisco?” he asked.

“Oh no,” said Caitlin quickly. “There is no excuse for that nonsense. Don't try to blame the coffee.”

 

****

 

It turned out Cisco was right, mostly. After about an hour of freedom, exploring the streets of Central City, the Flash found a meta who just popped in and out of existence, completely on accident. He kind of ran into the meta because the woman had been actually _invisible_. She had been invisible, outside of an apartment, standing in the middle of the fire escape stairwell and leaned on the railing, staring in a second floor window. Like a Pervy Pick Pocket might do. And as the Flash charged up the stairwell to get to the roof, he knocked the young woman straight over the banister, just barely catching her in time.

Flash hadn't been going top speed, otherwise there would have been problems. The woman dangled over the edge of the fire escape landing, held by one arm as the Flash tried to reel her back up. He watched little silver flakes flash off her skin as patches of her became visible. Some of them fell on the Flash’s suit and it looked like chunks of his arm disappeared.

The new meta didn't seem to appreciate the courtesy of not letting her die from the force of the fall and, in apparent defense, started going invisible again. Liquid slowly crept over her arm and up onto the Flash’s gloves. It was slightly unnerving to watch his own arm disappear, but Flash didn't let go. He pulled her up, kept a vice-grip on the woman’s arm. She shrugged at his efforts, tried to shake him off while clinging to a backpack strap over her shoulder. Barry was willing to bet the day’s pick-pocketed haul would be found in that backpack.

“What are you doing up here?” the Flash asked.

“Star gazing,” came the sarcastic response. The noise had attracted the attention of the apartment’s occupant and a young blonde woman stood framed in the darkened window, wide eyed and wrapped in a fuzzy robe.

“Oh you've got to be kidding me,” Barry grumbled. He started marching the unknown meta down the stairs and away from her apparent target.

“I didn't do anything!” the stranger complained.

“Yeah, but I’m sure you _saw_ plenty,” replied the Flash.

“What is it?” Cisco wanted to know through the comm. “Did you get the new guy? Was he perving? I told you!”

Barry didn't have a chance to validate Cisco’s sleuthing skills. Half way down the stairs, the invisible lady-perv started running in an effort to distract The Flash from hanging onto her arms. It wasn't like the Flash carried handcuffs to make his life any easier in situations like this and he just had to either keep up or let go. It wasn't exactly a hard choice. At the bottom of the stairs, Flash shifted his hold on the woman’s wrist, yanked, twisted, and shoved to force the not-yet-invisible woman up against the wall. Flakes of blue-gray organic material fluffed off her jacket before she could be fully covered, keeping her at least partly visible.

“Gonna need you guys to call Argus,” Barry said into the comm. “I’m gonna take _her_ to the CCPD lock-up to wait for the escort.”

“HER?!” Cisco yelped.

“Wait, CCPD won't have anything on her, Baer. We don't even know if this is the same guy. How can they keep her-” Caitlin asked.

“Behind bars is how they keep her,” said Barry. Maybe invisible was a bit out of the CCPD’s league, but there were other resources. “Argus can figure out the rest.”

“Hey-hey-hey! I didn't do anything, man,” the invisible perv tried. She doubled her efforts at fighting and the Flash clamped down on her wrists. But then he let go, just for a second. Just an experiment, a dare. The woman took it, twisted loose, and tried an attack to escape.

Barry took the opportunity and tried to win, no cheating, no relying on speed or his suit. The woman was his age, built and fit, so it seemed like a fair fight considering Barry was trying to make himself fight without using his usual force. It wasn’t in his moral code to play rough with women, so he figured that was a better way to train himself to defend and not hurt. It was like learning to spar... with someone who didn't know they were sparring.

Then the woman stepped back a little too far and started to liquefy over to go invisible. Barry panicked and reacted, the Flash’s speed and strength decking the woman across the jaw like a kick from a mule. The Flash won the fight, and he stood over an unconscious pervy pick pocket to show for it. And he felt like shit for the bad call.

“Uhmm... what was that?” Cisco asked through the earpiece. “That looked like a fight.”

“Sounded like one,” added Caitlin.

“Was that a fight?” Cisco asked.

Barry knelt beside the young meta, checking to be sure he didn't need to take her to a hospital instead of the CCPD. He wasn't exactly proud of himself in that moment, for so many reasons. He caught his breath and then hefted the stranger’s weight in a fireman's carry.

“She got loose. I had to knock her out,” he told them.

“Ooookay...” Cisco wasn't buying it but he wasn't arguing, either. The silence from Caitlin was similarly damning. Barry's friends were worried. Barry was a little worried. The streets were the last place he needed to be. He headed for the CCPD before he could stall further.

“Did somebody call Lilah?”

“On it.”

The Flash delivered the meta and her backpack to the CCPD with firm directions not to open the door without an Argus retrieval team’s instructions. He wasn’t messing around with invisible people and despite his currently jumbled up feelings, wanted to be clear that it be handled by the experts who made it their jobs.

Later, maybe after a quick shower in the safe, warm water at S.T.A.R. Labs, Barry actually wanted to go back to Iron Heights early. He needed to get his head on straight. Central City would have to wait.

 

****

 

Barry didn't get to go straight to Iron Heights when he left CCPD. Caitlin wouldn't let him. The readings from his suit, she said, were not normal. Cisco backed her up on it. And since they were the scientists behind all the technology currently keeping Barry in running shoes, he didn't argue. Maybe he needed a check-up.

It was confirmation at least of his own suspicions that something was wrong. His reactions lately were instinctive, flailing and grasping at the slightest thought rather than his well-practiced, polished results, and his times were off. He had spent so much time trying to get better, be faster and stronger, and he felt that was on a gradual backward slide. Training with his special abilities had come to a dead stop, but in four days, he shouldn't have lost any of the skills they had all worked so hard to unlock.

Barry’s responses to general human interactions lately were wrong, too, particularly around anything remotely related to Leonard Snart. Since the incident at the prison that afternoon, it was like the man had crawled inside his head. Barry was stuck, completely unable to comprehend the idea that Len was capable of protecting anyone. Generally, bad guys did the opposite of helping, and Len was proud of his bad-guy-ways. It was baffling to think that Len would publically want to help a cop, at the risk of his prized reputation. There had to be a catch, and Barry worried what that might be.

He worried about a lot of things. His anxiety was up. Granted, he was dealing with a court case and prison time already being served, so anxiety was normal. But Barry was usually a pretty calm guy. He didn't get the shakes or the random need to fidget, like he had been lately. His mind would race from one thought to another, hardly finishing before it was on to the next word or sentence or theory, and he stuttered a few times when talking to Caitlin and Cisco in person. Barry could run and handle an inhuman physical load of stress, but going on four days of dealing with Iron Heights and he was cracking up. There had to be a physiological reason for it, and Caitlin would be the one to find it.

There were a few things he wouldn't tell Caitlin or Cisco about, though. Like the problem that afternoon, or Len’s solution of protecting him from the entire block by going after one sore loser. Or like the crazy snapshots of thoughts that hit Barry’s brain when he heard the other prisoners talk about him or Len.

It was worse when the other prisoners weren't talking, when they were miming taking a knife to his throat, or one of the more crude gestures. The bucking hips and flipping him off was a pretty popular one. If they were just strangers out on the streets, Barry could have ignored them, but he couldn't safely ignore it in the violent environment of Iron Heights. The guards couldn't be everywhere at once, and the strangers who had been there longer than Barry - like Len, or like Lewis Snart - knew exactly how to dodge the bulls.

Because of that, there was a part of Barry that wanted a protector; he couldn't use his own knowledge and skills and strengths to protect himself. Not without exposing himself as a metahuman, losing his job, getting locked up in Argus for the crime of working with the Snarts. He would ruin the Flash and endanger the city in a massive wave of disappointment and discouragement. Barry stood to lose more defending himself as the Flash than he would if he just rolled over and took a beating from anyone who decided to give him one. It hurt for a little while but he would heal. That wasn't exactly an option around murderers, because beatings would lead to death.

In light of what was at stake, someone he could trust to keep him safe from all that lined up against him was welcome. Len was welcome in that role, if he meant it. And that was something Barry couldn't get himself to say outloud. He couldn't tell his friends about any of it. He didn't know what came with the contract for protection, but he knew enough about prison to guess it wasn't free. He knew Len didn't work for favors, and he didn't like to owe anyone anything. There was always payment. Barry’s brain had been snapping across some very creative ideas of prison currency for payment lately, and he was pretty sure that couldn't be normal. The jumbled chaos of his mind lately had to be something physically wrong with him.

Caitlin was his best shot at figuring all of it out, but that didn't mean he had to tell her everything. So he sat still for blood tests, for scans, for electrodes to crawl over his skin and pull up more data. It was two in the morning, they were all tired, but Barry tried not to rush her. The results and reports weren't fast in hitting the screens though.

“Well,” Caitlin finally said, nearly an hour later. “It might be the hyperglycemia. Because you are on a comparatively limited diet now. But... that's only been for a few days. It should not be causing the spikes in the readings or any of the other symptoms we’re seeing.”

“What exactly is it you're seeing?” Barry asked.

“Power spikes, temperature all over the board, moisture levels fluctuating within a suit that is supposed to accommodate in real time...” Caitlin rattled off the short list, like there was more.

“Plus you’re over amped,” said Cisco. “I mean, the suit can take whatever you can throw at it. But... you’re plugging a nine volt battery in where there should be a triple-A right now.”

“It's like you’re going too fast,” added Caitlin. “Your body is generating more energy than you can use-”

“You’re overclocking your system, according to the suit,” said Cisco.

“And that's bad,” chimed in Caitlin again. Barry nodded. It wasn't exactly a surprise.

“I went from building up energy and strength on purpose, every day, to sitting locked in a little box,” Barry pointed out. “And when I’m not in the little box, I’m outside, in a yard, which is just a slightly bigger box with more people in it. So I can't maintain the training, but my body missed the memo.”

“Right,” said Caitlin. She bit her lip, obviously unsatisfied.

“What else?” Barry prompted.

“Occam's razor, most obvious answer is the likely explanation,” said Cisco. He fidgeted with his pen. “But you’ve been acting... weird...”

“I’m acting _weird_. Is this, like, a _scientific_ diagnosis? It sounds _really_ helpful right now,” said Barry. He glanced at the clock on the computer screen. Cisco pointed the pen at him.

“That.”

At Barry’s annoyed expression, Caitlin nodded, waved to back up Cisco’s illustration. “This is our point, Barry. You aren't acting like yourself. You’re not usually this sarcastic and... and this... _bitchy_.”

Wow. Caitlin swore about it. It surprised Barry enough that he took a mental step back. “I am tired. I don't know. Maybe? You’re probably right.”

“Damn straight we're right,” said Cisco.

Caitlin nodded. “And you should get sleep-”

“I’d love to, but I can't until I get back to my five-star hotel accommodations in another city,” Barry reminded her. He offered a smile to show the sarcasm wasn't meant mean-spirited; they were a team, these were his friends, and they were _all_ worried.

“I don't know what it is, Barry. But you need to be careful, okay?” Caitlin asked.

“I promise, I am trying,” Barry told her. Caitlin folded her arms around her tablet, tapped the screen; she was naturally a bundle of nerves but this was eating at her anxiety, Barry could tell.

“I’ll run the panels, twice if I have to. Full work up, all the levels, hormones and everything, but it's going to take some time,” she said. “I’ll compare everything, and I’ll have the numbers for you tomorrow night.”

Barry looked between his friends. It was the best they could do, and it gave them something to do when they couldn't help him inside a prison. And maybe it would answer at least some of the questions, solve something, _anything_. He nodded. Team Flash was on Barry’s case. They would figure out something.

 

****


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning at breakfast, Barry stayed alert for signs of trouble. The external kind. The kind that got him jumped from behind and taken down, defenseless. He ate his food, he kept quiet, he listened. Anyone around him was a threat, from the prisoners who thought he was a cop, to the cranky guards who thought he was a _dirty_ cop, and of course, his suddenly heroic criminal cellmate.

It was the leftovers from Harrison Wells; the friend, mentor, coach, and teacher who wore a trustworthy mask the whole time he prepared to stab him in the back. Behind every new ally was the potential for a future threat. It wasn't an outlook on life that Barry was familiar with, wasn't how he raised. There weren't a lot of opportunities for allies in prison, but he knew once, not so long ago, he probably would have looked. Enemies came with the territory for someone who stood against abuse, but that didn't make sorting through the potential problems any easier. It was an acquired skill and Barry was still learning. Len wasn't helping in that regard, with his uncharacteristic helpfulness of late.

Barry had worked with Len before, knew what to expect from him, for the most part. Len was supposed to be the barometer for the rest of the cutthroats, villains, and thieves that surrounded Barry in the cafeteria. It just didn't work to compare and contrast when Len was going out of his way to be accepting and accommodating because it was a fact that no one else would.

For whatever reason, Barry’s mind raced, sorting the sounds inside the cafeteria individually so he picked up more than he wanted to. The rain on the pavement outside wasn't enough to distract him from listening to everything he could maybe hear. It was clear, through snatches of overheard conversation, direct threats, and various colorful hand gestures, that most people around Barry in Iron Heights wanted him gone if not dead. He was the new guy, he was the fish, he was Snart’s bitch, he was roadkill, he was a squealing pig, he was the snitch with the pretty mouth; he was labeled with a dozen other names besides. Each one was used to put him in his place, whether overheard or tossed at his face. It wasn't exactly a pleasant background static as he did something so normal as try to eat his breakfast.

Despite the rain, they could have gone outside for fresh air. It seemed like a great place to get jumped, outside with no one around, so Barry took a pass on that one. Len said he didn't want to get his book wet. He had to be nearly finished with it so it was rolled in his hand as he followed Barry back to their cell.

Inside, Barry paused to fix the end of his mattress because it looked like some smartass had messed with the corner. Barry kept it tucked in with tight hospital corners for that very reason, he wanted to know if someone shoved something in his spaces; all it took was one piece of contraband and a surprise cell check to get Barry in more trouble than he already was.

Len waited for him for a moment, then got what passed for annoyed for him lately and sighed. He caught Barry’s hip to keep him still and edged along behind him to get into the cell. Then he climbed into the lower bunk. He apparently got a good whiff.

“If you’re going to shower at home, you might want to drop the cologne,” Len advised.

“You told me I was stinking the place up,” replied Barry.

“Let me see the bottle then,” said Len, smug. “It smells, so it exists. It's gotta be in here somewhere, right? Is it glass?”

Barry rolled his eyes as he finished his personal bedcheck. “Okay. Got it.”

“It doesn't save you from the court of public opinion around this place to hide at home, either,” Len pointed out. “You’ve got a big target on your back in case you missed the memo-”

Barry nodded. “Oh no, I caught that one.”

“- and people notice where you do and _don't_ go. They’re still gonna talk.”

Barry crouched down, leaned back against the wall in front of Len’s bunk. He waved between them.

“I don't like their talk,” he said. “Apparently, according to everyone out there, I’m your bitch. That's what it means when you protect someone.”

Len shrugged. “So do I treat you like my _bitch_? Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“Then what's your problem?” he asked. Len could shrug it off, but Barry couldn't. It bothered him.

“I don't want to owe you something when I can defend myself-”

Len cut him off, knocking down that notion before it got a chance to grow. “I'm the one with a name that means something here. You're the cop. If you try to pull authority on this side of the fences, you’ll get _killed_.”

Still quiet, Barry pointed out into the world beyond their cell. “I'm gonna get killed because half of them want to _steal_ what's _yours_. The other half because I'm a cop.”

“They won't steal what's mine,” said Len. It was a matter of fact as much as his personal determination. Barry nodded, trying to lead him to the point he was trying to make in the first place.

“I'm not actually yours,” he said. Len didn't seem offended but he didn't seem to catch what Barry was saying.

“That's _your_ problem,” Len replied. He pointed out to the lineup quad. “To them, you are, and if you're as smart as you seem to be, you’ll leave it that way.”

“So, what, this is part of the protection service? Pretending I’m yours to lecture about prison hygiene is how you keep me safe?”

“Nope, I told you I’d give you the rundown on how the place works. This is how,” Len replied.

“Then what are the rules here? With you, with this benevolent protection racket you’re running? What am I supposed to do on my end?” Barry asked. Len set his book down, mild surprise on his expression.

“You’re gonna have to explain that one,” he said.

“I mean, since when do you do something for nothing?” Barry replied. “What do you want out of it?”

Len smiled broadly, amused. “World peace. Next question.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean,” returned Len. Still smug. Still a bastard.

“What do you want from _me_ from this? This helping, these pro-tips, all the sticking your neck out in defense of the dirty cop,” said Barry.

“The question is, what do you want to give?” asked Len. Negotiations were open. And Barry didn't know how to answer that. He had already crossed a big line with Leonard Snart, wiping him from existence and hoping he kept his word about keeping quiet. There was a lot of real estate to cover between hero and villain cooperation lines.

And hearing and seeing some of the things he had in prison, Barry had already considered a few options that prior to the Iron Heights experience had never entered his reality before, outside of the Internet. The random memory of Oliver Queen climbing Felicity’s favorite salmon ladder reminded Barry that he was not oblivious or immune to the frustrated energy of prison life.

Here, men either talked about sex, their conquests, their girls at home, or they dreamed out loud, in their sleep or while awake, noisy as hell inside cells that were little echo chambers for sound. And the sound of squeaking mattresses was very loud to cover up the sound of the men on them sometimes. Hanging a sheet only dampened the sound a little, Barry had realized those times he did try to get some sleep, day or night didn't matter. It was life here. It was something Len, Captain Cold of all people, was actively shielding him from.

And all Barry wanted to know from Len was if that was on the negotiation table or not, because he had no idea what he would do with it if it was. Being a criminal’s prison bitch wasn't a very heroic thing for the darling of Central City to do with his undercover time behind bars. The Flash being in debt to Snart wasn't safe for the city, either. What was acceptable currency in prison, aside from sex, cigarettes, and future favors?

The longer Barry struggled with the moral and ethical responsibilities of being the human hero who held the key and heart of Central City, the more amused Len seemed to get.

“Okay, stop. Before you hurt yourself, amusing as that would be,” said Len. “You want to keep your ledger clean and tidy in here, then just don't fuck up. That's it. If the net gain is we both stay alive, fine. It means you don't provoke the natives. I tell you how things are done, you do them _that way_. Then we know that any problems someone has with you are theirs. Not on you.”

That sounded fair to Barry, but he still felt paranoid, waiting for the catch. “So what I've _been_ doing.”

“Mostly.”

“What have I-”

“For starters, you don't _listen_. You've been here nearly four days. Haven't stepped foot in the showers. I don't want to deal with the... _questions_ that raises, among the local population,” said Snart.

“The place doesn't smell like a locker room,” Barry pointed out. “I took a shower...”

Len rolled his eyes. “Look at it this way, Barry. This place is a self-contained _social scene_. Like high school, only more _violent_. An elite club. Members are _expected_ to make an appearance at the club’s various amenities, because that's what people do. When folks _avoid_ the _amenities_ , it stands out. _When in Rome_ , and all that.”

“The showers are not a membership perk to prison, Len.”

“That's a lot of judgement from a guy who tried to _drown_ himself in the Old Spice this morning,” returned the Criminal Club Member who smelled like generic, no-brand deodorant and the bleach detergent from PI laundry. Barry frowned and reluctantly conceded the point. “You don't show up at the showers, you don't look and smell like a walking pigpen, people start to ask _why_. And I don't like those questions.”

“Questions lead to assumptions,” Barry said, nodding. Logic aside, Len still cared mostly because of the protection racket on the side. Barry was so tempted to let him suffer that particular social blow in his social club. “Not just about me but about you. Because of the company we supposedly keep and the hanged sheet.”

Len shook his head, irritated. “But this is _not_ about me. You _live_ here now. I've seen you take a crap. I’m not... trying to get you naked or something. You can do that in here, I don’t _care_. It's everybody else, the guards, everybody, that's the problem. There’s expectations.”

“It _is_ about you. Because you’re my protector here,” said Barry, fairly confident he had it figured out. “And as my protector, there are certain things that you’re supposed to be on top of.”

The gloating smile came back. “Yeah. Like _you_. And nobody wants that stench around. So they _want_ you to make your appearances.”

That was slightly embarrassing. Barry hadn't been prepared to walk into that. Which only proved the point that there was so much Barry wasn't prepared to walk into, and that was why he needed Len on his side, and why Len was asking him not to fuck up in return.

“Look. Don't you think somebody’s going to look into why you _don't_ stink, when all of them _do_?” Len said. “ _Stop looking_ for an angle on it, Barry. _Logic_. Use it.”

Barry reluctantly nodded. “So no taking shortcuts.”

It was all about the experience, the once in a lifetime opportunity to see how the other half lived. That included walking naked into places that were not monitored by guards where he would be subject to attack. Just to maintain appearances.

Len agreed. “No shortcuts.”

 

****

 

And that was how, later that afternoon, Barry’s guided tour of Iron Heights expanded to include the showers. Another part of the prison Barry had never been to before, despite his prior visits as a law enforcement professional, and hoped to never have to see again.

The showers were near the main hallway, right off the cellblock. It wasn't like the high school locker room at all. There was a room with shelves built in for leaving clothes somewhere dry and that room was monitored by a guard on the other side of a thick glass window. It was well lit, seemed safe enough.

“Have people really been killed in the showers here? Or is that just, like, a myth?” Barry asked as he shrugged out of his shirt, shoved it on the shelf next to where Len had left his neatly folded version. Len didn't dignify the question with a response, just grabbed his towel to lead the tour into the next room. Stripped down and towel clad like the rest of the cattle led to slaughter, Barry scrunched his nose and followed.

The showers weren't exactly monitored, just a big doorway with no doors so the guard behind the glass in the locker room could see if someone staged a riot or something. It was a small room, faucets every three feet around the outside walls and a shorter center wall with faucets along both sides. It could hold maybe fifteen people at once. Barry felt like he was being watched. He was watched in one room by guards to make sure everyone kept their hands to themselves, and watched in the other room by men who did not want to keep their hands to themselves.

It was very public. And very intimidating with wet floors and slick tile to get slammed into in a fight. Barry’s paranoia at being attacked from behind the day before had his mental voice sounding a lot like a kindergarten teacher: _don't run on wet floors, don't run with scissors, never-ever try to touch fire_... Combined with Oliver’s advice to always know the layout of a scene before approaching it, Barry was like a long tailed cat in an old folks’ home full of rocking chairs. He couldn't figure out the safest place to be in a room seemingly designed to ensure a painful death. So he went to the small wall in the center of the room, hoping for better visible warning in case of attack.

It was also a slight act of rebellion, intentionally choosing to put a wall between himself and his jailhouse protector. Len stood opposite him, didn't seem to notice or care where Barry chose to shower, so long as he was seen doing so. Questions would be dodged, Len’s workload lightened.

It was hard to balance staying aware of his surroundings with keeping his attention on just the task at hand. At breakfast, Barry had been subject to catcalls and smartassed commentary, even the fun universal sign language of someone threatening to slice his neck open. In the showers, he didn't want to know if someone decided to really jack off in his direction like they laughed about doing out in the yard. So he kept his eyes to the front, to the relatively safer territory of his own side of the tile wall, and just beyond that, Len.

Len was protective of his space. He didn’t like to be touched unless he initiated it, he didn’t like it when Barry stepped on his bunk to launch up to the upper bunk, and he piled on the clothes like he was always cold. Generally he hid in his bunk to switch between shirts, so Barry had never seen much more than the man’s layers. Now he saw the scars on Len’s shoulders, like Lisa had shown the team at the labs. What looked like long healed burns, switch-marks, cuts, even a cigarette burn just below his collarbone. A dangerous looking scar ran down most of his shoulder. It looked like the older man had been through hell.

With his choices in life, it made a kind of sense. But Barry was stuck remembering Lisa Snart’s story. Lisa’s injuries hadn't come from being a criminal, they had come from being a daughter. What kind of sacrifices had Len made as a brother, looking out for his little sister? He worked so hard for his sister now, as an adult, it had to have started somewhere. It was a sobering realization and it distracted Barry from the horror stories he expected to find in the showers.

They didn't have to be there long, just enough for Barry to put in an appearance, and for all he cared about the project of jailbird cleanliness, he could have gone and stood in the rain out in the yard rather than discovered the showers. But he agreed to play by Len’s rules, so he waited for Len to decide they had wasted enough time keeping up appearances. Barry instead spent a few minutes worried about Len, just as a human being for once, rather than a calculating criminal out to ruin his life.

He forgot to keep track of the door out to the monitored room, didn't pay attention to the flow of traffic as men came in or left. Either because of his experience or because he was expecting trouble, maybe both, Len did pay attention to the doorway. Some new guys showed up, started setting up at the showers along the wall, and Len hurried to shut off the water at his faucet.

“Let's go,” he said. He even reached over and shut down the shower on Barry’s side before he left. Barry was grudgingly used to being bossed and responded by collecting his soaps and reaching for his towel. What he wasn't used to, nor expecting, was the full-handed smack across the ass as Len walked by him to the changing room again.

“Hey. _Move it_.”

It flustered Barry, he nearly dropped his little bottle of shampoo, and he struggled to wrap his towel at his waist all at once.

When Barry looked up again, he saw Lewis Snart - much more of him than he ever wanted to see again - standing on the other side of the wall. He had his arm wrapped in a plastic bag or something, covering the damage that Len’s cold gun had dealt a few days earlier. And that was _all_. Barry got the hell out of the unmonitored shower area because where Lewis went, his minions followed. He was their collective target and they knew the territory better than he did. It wasn't worth the risk of staying too long to give them the benefit of the doubt about whether or not they would attack.

All the same, Barry’s face was still red when he rushed to collect his clothes from the shelf beside Len’s. Shoulder to shoulder, Barry could hardly look at him. But somehow he knew Len had that same smug grin on his face for it as he always did.

 

****


	10. Chapter 10

Back at the cell, Barry’s cheeks were back to his usual pale, but his hair was still wet, and he was still... flustered. He followed Len inside, set his stuff on his bed, and lurked as Len saw to his own business.

“What the hell, man! For real?” Barry wanted to know. He managed to keep it to a whisper though.

“What?” Len asked over his shoulder. He arranged soap on the small shelf at the back wall before moving toward his usual spot on the lower bunk. Barry blocked his path. He waved vaguely toward the general direction of the showers. And then, eye to eye with Len, he forgot how to use words.

“The... the... _smacking_. And the bossing.”

It was the best he could manage but Len didn't seem to notice. He rolled his eyes and moved again to get past Barry. “We _just_ had this conversation an hour ago.”

“Yeah, and you didn't listen,” Barry replied. He still mirrored Len so the man turned again to face him, rather than climb under the bunk. It helped them keep their voices quieter, which helped his image in general if they weren't caught bickering in their cell.

“Actually, you didn't,” Len poked carefully at Barry’s chest. “I told you-”

With a quick nod, Barry interrupted. “I'm tired of being _told_.”

“Get used to it.”

The matter-of-fact, nasally, bossy way it was delivered got to Barry. He didn't want to get used to it, and if he really wanted to screw caution and forget the future, he didn't _actually_ have to. There was the slightest hesitation to Len’s order, too; his brow creased and the expression on his face was concern, not arrogant, gloating anger. The man knew Barry didn't have to get used to anything, too. Len was gambling on the situation around them, on the prison, keeping Barry from retaliation for treating him like a peon. Len knew, outside the walls and without the cold gun, the balance of power was a lot different.

That split second of concern was the only acknowledgment Barry was likely to ever get that the two were equals. Somehow, it was enough to make him happy and yet stupidly angry still. Frustrated. Suddenly it was an entirely different sort of frustration. He caught Len by the front of the shirt and shoved into him, pinning him to the wall. It didn't take a lot of effort, and Len didn't raise his hands in defense. He raised his hands and caught Barry at the hip, but he didn't fight. They both held their breath, like they were each surprised at the move because it was welcomed. It was, as far as Barry could tell, an invitation. And Len watched him, licked his lips, made it harder to ignore.

After nearly four days in Iron Heights, Barry Allen broke down and pinned his cellmate to the wall so he could kiss him. He wasn't weak, he wasn't incapable of defending himself, he wasn't anybody’s _bitch_ ; Barry actually knew what he wanted and how to get it, like a functional adult. And he wasn't completely proud of how much he wanted Len Snart just then. He just didn't have a word for it yet because it was not normal. He couldn't afford to trust him, but he did. He was going to get screwed counting the man as a _friend_ , so _allies_ was a convenient middle ground for the both of them.

And for that one split second he had seen through the bullshit tough-front Len had been throwing at him for days. Barry wasn't waiting for it to come back. He took the kiss deeper and Len tugged him closer.

Kissing was a good way to prove they were even, Barry figured. He couldn't use any speedster tricks - it actually required a lot of effort to control the energy his body produced because getting too lost, too excited, would just be an embarrassing failure entirely - and Len still couldn't shoot him when the gun was in a police evidence locker in another city. And it was a lot of fun trying to control a kiss with a control freak like Len; just a little challenge could get him excited and aggressive.

They argued silently until they were out of breath. The cell bars buzzed, rattled and clanked shut to lock them in as per schedule, startling the both of them out of their focus on each other. Then they just stood in each other's space, breathing, each waiting for some betrayal of the moment. Barry caved first. He tapped his hand against Len’s chest.

“Did we just do that?” he asked. Len nodded, leaned back against the wall again to watch Barry. The smug grin was there.

“That is definitely something we did,” he said. He almost sounded... relieved. Barry smiled.

“Just checking. Sometimes I drop into other realities and it gets weird.” He scrunched his nose up, his usual level of awkward forcing to the front of his sparkling personality.

“You are really good at weird, Barry,” Len agreed. It seemed to work for him. The man kept hold of the sides of Barry’s pants, made fists to pin him a little closer. The wall held more of their weight than they did. Barry looked out past the bars to see if they were being watched like that, but Len tried to drag his attention back by nipping at his jaw.

“I've heard that a few times, actually,” Barry managed.

“Well, they were right.” Len said the words between kissing his way along Barry’s neck to try bringing him back from worrying about life outside their cell. It finally worked and Barry looked at him, leaned against him against the wall. Since they were fresh from the showers, Len had a t-shirt on, no extra layers yet. Barry stood between his legs, arms to his chest, soaking up natural heat.

“You’re not actually cold.”

“Don't let that one get around,” said Len, lips against his skin. Barry ducked the curious tasting and claimed another kiss instead.

 

****

 

The rest of the rainy afternoon was the best kind of adventure, exploring the physical side of a prison-formed alliance. Len actually dragged Barry into the highly guarded, off-limits territory of the lower bunk for a while, just making sure Barry knew his way around. Barry wasn't left to fidget or do push-ups to try to spend energy leftovers from lunch, and he didn't surprise Len with any metal-triggered electric sparks.

Doing time passed a lot more quickly trying to make the uptight Len lose a little control. They broke it up to go to dinner, and Barry was acutely aware every time Len bumped into him in line or at the table. He had to pretend he wasn't, had to fight the urge to play, to drag the man back in. That wasn't good for appearances, though, and Barry knew that without having to be told, so he didn't try. It was a welcome distraction from the threats and grumblings around them in the cafeteria.

They went out to the yard after eating, Barry sitting at the bleachers as Len made his rounds among the hoods and contacts. So freshly reminded that prison life wasn't his normal life, Barry called Laurel to check on the case.

“Not much luck, Barry,” his lawyer told him. She sounded discouraged. “I had my tech expert at S.T.A.R. Labs take a crack at the security video to restore the glitch that erased things-”

“Oh, it was a glitch, huh?” Barry asked, amused by the cover story.

“Terrible glitch. Freak accident. The _worst_ ,” said an amused Laurel. “Anyway. So we can show Snart shot you. But the lab techs couldn't find the bullet trajectory from it. No physical evidence.”

“Yeah, I kind of caught the bullet that got close,” said Barry, mildly apologetic. He shook it off. It would have helped his case if he'd been shot, but it wouldn’t have helped anything else.

“You’re on defense, Barry. I can work with reasonable doubt. The video shows you being shot. Maybe they didn't have a CSI work the scene because, _of course,_ their CSI was in custody, so maybe the officers just missed finding the bullet hole in the secured room. Maybe the bullet hit metal and got kicked around in the chaos. Who knows. The point is, you were forced to help them, and that's our entire case as it stands right now,” she said.

“So there’s a chance,” Barry said. It was cold out as the sun went down and he huddled into his jacket a little. But at least it wasn't raining.

“Maybe. A better one than we had when a computer glitch accidentally wiped the video,” said Laurel.

“Can I start calling Cisco the Glitch?” Barry laughed. Laurel shushed him for the joke. It was still two against one on the statements from the Snarts, and the security guards had all confirmed Barry was with the two criminals. There were two guards with crazy stories about being on one floor on patrol and then suddenly getting knocked from behind and ending up on the floor below, but Laurel didn't know how to make their testimony work in Barry’s favor without involving the Flash. It was still a mess. But reasonable doubt was all it took. Barry trusted Laurel could make the case.

They said their goodbyes and Barry wandered back to the nearby bleachers where Len waited for him with Silver and a few of the safer crooks. The conversation with Laurel had been babysat even if it wasn't directly monitored.

“What was that?” Len asked, nodding toward the phones. He reached out and caught Barry’s jacket sleeve, steered him to the bench in front of him.

“Lawyer,” said Barry. He straddled the bench and didn't mind when Len put his feet up on it just behind him. He looked over at Len, amused despite himself. “I’m still screwed thanks to whatever your dad and you told Johnson. But maybe we can fake it.”

Len shrugged it off and looked away, the picture of indifference. The subject of Barry’s case was still off-limits. He stayed quiet as Silver dragged Barry into an argument he was having with one of his crew.

“Hey, the fish knows science! He can answer it, shut up!” Silver ordered. The other three turned to listen. Barry wasn't sure what to expect but it looked funny and he had to try not to smile.

“So, Barry. Say you got a... a problem with somebody. And you solve it. And then you've just got a body, so it's a different problem...”

Mentally, Barry facepalmed so hard he gave himself a headache. His smile faded. “I don't know how to get rid of bodies, Silver...”

“Nah, No, man, it's cool. This is just science,” he promised. Barry doubted it.

“What we wanna know,” one of the other guys said, “Is if you can just dump a body at a pig farm. Will they really just eat up all the evidence?”

“Oh my god,” muttered Barry. Len shoved at his back with a knee, just adding to the reminder that Barry’s life was the exquisite definition of upside down lately. And Barry had to figure out how to science his way out of advising a pack of criminals how to dispose of a body. That was just... his new normal.

 

****

 

That night was quiet again. More rain had chased them inside and the doors closed as Len settled back into the reading he had skipped all afternoon. Barry caught a much needed nap, but only managed an hour. He started blocking out the noises outside their cell, instead tracked and was reassured in his sleep by Len’s even breathing and the turning of pages. It was safe to sleep if his cellmate was calm.

The clanking, heavy sound of the lights in the cells all losing power at lights-out actually woke Barry up from his doze. He waited for the walk through count like usual, saw the guard wander by his cell and the cells across the building. It was the guard who had been looking out for Barry, Joe’s friend, and Barry nodded a silent greeting at him from the top bunk as he walked by. The last thing Barry wanted, he realized then, was Joe’s guard friend getting it back around to Joe and Iris that Barry had spent time in Len’s bunk.

When it was safe, he dropped down from his bunk and sat on the edge of Len’s. The man had a new book and he was stretched out, reading in the light from the center of the block outside the bars. Barry interrupted by leaning back to rest on his elbow against Len’s back, a polite sprawl in his space as he waited for attention. Len set his book aside and rolled to his side, depriving Barry of the armrest but rolling toward him rather than away. He squinted over his shoulder at him.

“What?” he asked. Barry reached up to loop his fingers in the bars supporting the mattress over his head rather than pull at Len. He wanted to stay and start things up again, but he knew he couldn't.

“I want you to go with me. But you can't. So I think I'm stalling,” he admitted. Len’s judgmental expression actually softened a little, the smug twist of his lips faded.

“Don't get attached, Barry,” he said. “You’re only here five more days.”

Barry nodded. That and a few other reasons. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Len shoved at Barry’s leg tucked up behind him. “So go save our city already.”

Given their diametrically opposite positions on the matter of whether or not Central City should be any kind of saved, the light order surprised Barry. He stalled out, hanging from the bunk frame like a stuck monkey. He squinted, tilted his head, tried to shake words loose to understand what Len was telling him. “...did you-”

Len rolled his eyes and shoved at him again. “I told you, you're important,” he said, voice impossibly quieter like he wouldn't even admit to saying the words as he was saying them. “You can help people, it's what you're good at. So go do it.”

Barry stared at him, surprise complete. “That... did not help the whole stalling thing.”

Amused, Len sat up, rearranging Barry’s leg to be sure there was room for the both of them in the small space. Barry still hung on to the mattress frame because he was afraid if he got as hands-on as Len was, he wouldn't be able to talk himself into leaving any time soon. Len took advantage and pulled on Barry’s shirt collar to drag him into a kiss. And as he tried to argue with Barry’s tongue, he tucked cold hands under the hem of Barry’s shirt up against skin.

It was ridiculously effective at changing Barry’s mind about looking after Central City that night. He pried his fingers out from the bunk so that he could touch back. He pulled Len toward him, as much into each other’s laps as they could get. The lazy drowsiness of the night disappeared under the excitement as Len kissed and stroked and pressed against him.

And then... Len pulled back. A quick kiss tugged at Barry’s jaw before he wasn't there again. Len planted his hands at Barry’s hips, shoved his thigh against Barry’s knee, and pushed him off the lower bunk.

“Go away.” He grinned as he said it. He knew exactly what he had done because he meant to do it. And then he settled down on his stomach with the book again, putting Barry on ignore to be sure he caught the hint. Despite the sudden discomfort of the let-down, Barry was amused by the tactic. It was kind of a Leonard Snart Signature move to leave him high and dry. Or at least knocked on his ass, on the floor, trying to figure out when the rules changed. Barry got to his feet and decided to take the excuse to go see to his city.

Not above revenge, though, he snagged Len’s book from the man’s hands before he left. It went with him, so Captain Cold would at least miss something about him while he was gone.

 

****


	11. Chapter 11

Out in the city that night, Barry was back on the streets with Oliver. Barry had barely caught up to him before they were dealing with some new ugly from the singularity, a new gift from Zoom. It wasn't hard to figure out that the half-human, half-jaguar didn't belong on the streets of Central City.

The bizarre cat-headed man kept them running around the docks. Big cats weren't afraid of the water and this one would use it to hide from Oliver’s arrows. Barry could outrun the cat, Oliver couldn't. Barry stood on a pier, watching the dark shadows along the water for signs of the monster from another earth while Oliver was further back on the safer territory of a rooftop.

“We can just contain him until Argus gets here,” Barry suggested. He was trying not to yawn and failing at it. “I don't think I want to risk him in the cortex.”

“Too many boxes around here,” Cisco offered up over the comms.

“Did you sleep, Barry?” asked Caitlin.

Barry sagged a little. He didn't need the distraction. “Not now, Caitlin-”

“Then answer the question,” said Oliver. Barry relented.

“I got like two hours, okay? A nap this morning and a nap tonight,” he said. “I don't need as much sleep as you guys. I'm fine.”

“We have _not_ tested that theory before and it could be totally bogus,” said Caitlin.

“Then we take down our big cat tonight and Barry goes back early,” said Oliver. “We can handle this.”

“For real? It's not my fault I can't sleep in that place,” said Barry. “There's all this noise... all the time...”

“Watching out for a cellmate who might kill you tends to be a factor,” added Oliver. “So maybe you should sleep at the labs for a few hours before you go back.”

“If I’m out, I’m working. I'm not going to break out of prison to _have a nap_ every night,” Barry argued. He kicked a rock as he paced the pier and it skittered off into the water. The underside of the dock bubbled up in an angry growl from a wet cat. He squinted but couldn't quite see over the edge.

“I don't suppose you have an arrow that could light up the water,” Barry asked.

“Not a lot to waste unless you want to run back to Starling,” said the Green Arrow through the comm. “But I have some flares if you've got a general area...”

The Flash had his own ways of lighting up the shadows. He moved back out to the solid ground along the row of warehouses and went for a run to build up his speed. He could run miles in the seconds it would take the cat to swim for another boardwalk to hide under and that was enough for Flash to catch the speed he would need. He ran along the docks and then moved down to speed along the surface of the water. He thought he saw the human cat bobbing along near one of the beams and went around for a second pass to be sure.

“He's definitely there,” Barry reported when he got back to the dock. “But we can't get to him without, you know, taking out the middle of the pier.”

“He’s a cat,” came the brilliant help from the Green Arrow hidden up on a rooftop nearby.

“Excellent observation,” Barry replied.

“You’re a human laser-pointer from up here on the docks,” said the Arrow. “If we can't get him to come play with a cardboard box, maybe we can get him to go after you like a lightning bug.”

“Now I'm a lightning bug,” grumbled Flash. “That's a new one.”

But he took the idea and ran with it, using up all that extra energy to blaze a trail along the docks and out over the water. He ran circles around the metahuman in the water, tried to draw him out. Maybe he was crazy, but the human-cat seemed scared more than anything, clinging to the wood support of the pier. Like the shock of the water and the Lightning together was enough to shake whatever leverage Zoom had over him. It should have been easy to contain the man, drag him back to S.T.A.R. or the CCPD or maybe just the zoo for some tranquilizer. But Barry wasn't sure he could run on the water and slow down enough to catch him without taking the pier down with them.

So he ran. He could either draw the metahuman out to the docks, or he could keep it where it was until Argus and their technology could show up to claim him. Barry was tired but the Flash had the energy to burn. Gradually, the big cat let go of the pier and paddled out into the water toward solid ground. Barry picked him up like any other rescue and deposited him in the police department’s quarantine cell behind a steel door. Cement bricks were safer than open bars when the person inside had human sized arms with supernatural strength and claws with razor sharp hooks at the end.

When he got back to the docks, the Flash happily collapsed on the rooftop near the Green Arrow and stared at the stars. He was so tired.

“Tell Argus to pick the cat-man up at CCPD,” he heard Oliver say into the mic. “I’m going to keep an eye on our friend for a little while, Cisco. How about you guys turn down the chatter and only monitor the police feeds? Just let us know if there’s something the department needs help with.”

“Sure thing, Green-boss,” said Cisco. Barry huffed a laugh at Oliver's newest name. Everybody got labeled. He glanced over as Oliver walked up to him. He put the hood back enough to cut back on some of the intimidation, but Barry didn't really notice. It was still just Oliver under there. His friend wasn't scary. Barry heard the extra quiet on the earpiece back to the labs and realized that Oliver had turned his mic off. That seemed like a really excellent idea because Barry sensed a lecture coming.

He switched off the mic in his suit and grudgingly sat up from his comfortable sprawl across the cement. It had rained in Central City not long ago, too, the sky still clearing so the stars came and went. It was cool and they were on the waterfront, and it was the exact opposite of the little box at Iron Heights. Barry tugged the cowl up and over his head so he could feel the wind.

“You’re showing off now. What's that, two metas giftwrapped at CCPD since Barry Allen went to Iron Heights,” the Green Arrow said. “Singh can't say you don't stay busy.”

Barry huffed at that. Oliver had _no_ _idea_.

“I’ll keep watch if you need to get some sleep,” Oliver said. “But if that's the case, we should get back to the labs. It's safer there.”

“I’m fine,” Barry told him. Oliver sat down beside him, watching him, _judging him a whole lot_.

“Why aren't you sleeping?”

“You want the list?” Barry laughed, quiet.

“Yes,” said Oliver. He paused, like he couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to say anything or not. “I've been locked up a few times. If you need help sorting some of that stuff out, I can listen.”

Boy, did Barry need help sorting stuff out. Having the offer put out on the table, he didn't even know where to start. So he sat on the roof, arms on his knees as he stared at the sky, and tried to pinpoint all of the individual reasons why Barry Allen was not cut out for living in a box off the public dole. Oliver listened, like he promised, and the only judgement seemed to be aimed at whether Barry was safe. But there wasn't much Oliver could offer up about the noise in the cellblock or the shitty food. And those weren't half of Barry’s mental static lately. He approached the subject of Len carefully, but mostly to make sure he didn't screw it up.

“Len’s really gotten into the whole protection thing. He kept me from getting jumped in the showers today. He took someone down yesterday when they went after me. And it's not like I’m not looking out for trouble. I am, that's half my problem, really. But he catches what I miss,” Barry said. He wanted an honest viewpoint, one not buried with the history that Barry and Cisco and Joe had with him.

“Snart’s the reason you’re in there at all,” said Oliver. “And I doubt he thinks he owes you anything for it.”

“Nope. Just for helping his sister. _That_ I actually think is important to him,” Barry said. “But he knows who I am. Has for months. And he's never gone after me or any of my friends.”

Oliver shrugged at that. “It wasn't to his advantage. Now, he'll look out for you until you leave. And then he’ll call in the favor at that point. Then he becomes a problem. When he asks you to get him out, like he's seen you get yourself out.”

Barry cringed a little at that. He stared at his gloves, guilty. “He said he’ll help as long as when I leave for the last time, he leaves. I told him I would figure something out.”

“Damnit, Barry.” Oliver was quiet about it, like he hadn't meant to be heard. Barry just nodded, tried to shrug it off.

“I mean, I can't keep that promise. He has to know that it won't happen,” he said. Oliver shook his head.

“The difference between you and them is your word, Barry. You put action behind your promise. That's how the city knows they can depend on you. If you gave your word to someone, even just a criminal, you have to keep it,” said Oliver. “That's why you don't make promises you can't keep. Don't make promises that hurt your city.”

“Len’s calmed down a lot. I don't think he's out to hurt the city,” Barry pointed out. He didn't feel any better about making the promise though.

“I’ll talk to Laurel about it. Maybe she can take his case. If she can legally help him walk, it gets you off the hook,” Oliver offered. Barry looked over at his friend, hopeful and yet conflicted.

“This is the worst part, you know?” he said. Oliver looked confused. Barry waved at him, at the promise his friend had just made. “Everyone is having to clean up after me. I tried to help someone - just one person, really - and it's this big tangled mess. I make a promise to help Len in exchange for his word that he’ll help me in there, and now you and Laurel are on the hook for one more thing. Like you aren't already doing enough.”

“Some people know how to read the room better than you do,” Oliver said. He didn't seem offended or at all inconvenienced by Barry’s observation. He seemed to agree. “So the Snarts- Well, at least Len and Lisa.- when they see you and Cisco, they don't just see somebody who wants to help. They see somebody with resources. They see your connections and your money. So they look at you and they know, once they have a hold of you, they have hooks in everyone who stands with you.”

“Lisa went to Cisco to get to Flash. Len went through Flash to get the help for Lisa. I get it,” said Barry. He frowned at his hands, tried to align Oliver's perspective with the still new memories of holding Len. It wasn't working so good.

“I mean, some people do it on purpose. Some people, they _only_ deal with high-value targets and drop them when they aren't needed. Others may actually care about the people they find. But they still know how to manipulate that social system once they have a place in it,” said Oliver. “That's just how they work. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Except that I’m in the middle of it,” replied Barry. “And trying to get myself out of it just dragged people in with me further.”

“Barry, you’re seeing this all wrong, man,” said Oliver. He seemed a little frustrated and Barry looked up at him, trying to understand.

“What?”

“You're in a bad spot, but you're _not alone_. That's an asset. Not something to feel guilty about,” Oliver told him. “This is just... something that happens. It's a risk that comes with the territory. That's _why_ you have a team behind you: more minds working on the problem, shared responsibility and shared workload. And it's a good team. We can't do this job alone. You don't have to.”

“That sounds a lot like _Felicity_ ,” said Barry. Oliver laughed a little.

“I guess I get to hear about it too, yeah,” he said. “I’m just not usually on this side of it.”

“It sucks on this side of it.”

Oliver watched him, still judging. “It sucks from both sides. You’re a good person and shouldn't be in this position and we know it. So this is how we help.”

That was frustrating to hear. Barry picked up a broken bit of cement from the ground beside him, tossed it at the low wall that went around the roof’s edge. “Len said something like that when I left today.”

“He's in your head,” Oliver said. Barry shrugged.

“I've spent the last four days with him,” he replied. “He's in a lot of places.”

“I don't think you can trust him. He can help you if he wants, but don't make him part of your plans.”

That wasn't helpful. Barry rolled his eyes and tried to keep from snapping off about it. He was stuck. He trusted Len and no amount of well-intended advice would correct the part of his brain that ignored logic. Len burned him every time and nobody knew that better than Barry himself. Oliver seemed to sense the frustration and he stood up, subject dropped. He tapped Barry’s shoulder.

“Come on. Up,” he said. It was an order, not an invitation. Barry narrowed his eyes at him.

“What, now you can order me around?”

Oliver tugged his hood back over his head, prodded Barry with the end of his bow. “If you’re going to let a crook in your head, you’re gonna let me in, too. Which means you and me have got some work to do.”

Barry reluctantly stood and readjusted the cowl over his face. “What work?”

“I told you last time. You’re going to learn some stuff to help you control and center and slow down,” said Oliver. He shot off an arrow as he walked away, and before Barry could get any more information out of him, the Green Arrow dropped casually off the side of a three story building. Barry stood at the roof’s edge and watched his friend repel safely down to the sidewalk from a building across the street. With some quick work, the Green Arrow was disentangled from his gear. He drove off on a motorcycle, shamelessly breaking a few traffic safety laws on the way.

“We’re all hypocrites,” Barry realized aloud. Vigilantes and metahuman snitches. Nobody was perfect. They all just worked to control the problem areas and ignored the inconvenience of the parts they liked.

He mulled it all over the rest of the morning after that, letting Joe’s favorite vigilante teach him new ways of dealing with the world, while thinking way too much about his cop-dad’s least favorite criminal back in lock-up.

 

****


	12. Chapter 12

When Oliver was done with him, Barry was still tired, but he was content. They had covered a slow form of martial arts, tai chi, that was for meditation and movement. The hard work, the part that used the most excess energy for Barry, was in that he had to consciously slow and balance his movements, as if his metahuman body was really a stop-motion puppet instead. He moved, he stopped, he held the pose, and he moved again, rather than just swipe his arm in a single movement. It required focus, it required tracking movements, and it used up a surprising amount of energy.

It was the reverse of everything he had been learning the last few months, which was how to shorten every movement and go faster. As long as his tired mind didn't forget the routines, Barry had an hour’s worth of moves to meditate on that, incidentally, at full speed would kill a man without the slightest effort. That wasn’t his favorite part. Barry would have to be very careful with it, but in the short-term, it would hopefully get him through the days in the overcrowded box.

On his way out of the labs, Barry snagged a generic cheap pillowcase. He traded out the prison jumpsuit for regular street clothes at home and then, buried in a hooded jacket of his own, snuck off to Big-Belly Burger because he missed greasy food that didn't taste like cardboard. Thank god for the twenty-four-seven diners of the world. Then he went home, dumped the food in the pillowcase, changed back into his prison uniform, and went back to Iron Heights. All without waking up Joe, because Barry was too tired to deal with his dad’s well-meant interrogations.

When he phased through the wall, he found Len waiting for him. The man stood beside the bunk, arms crossed.

“Book,” he ordered. Barry grinned at him.

“Come on, you can do better than that,” he taunted. Len saw the game and met it, easing forward and doing a hands-on search for the book with a greeting kiss as a buy-off. He found the book folded up in Barry’s back pocket. The book was tossed on his bed, then Len helped himself to the pocket again and backed Barry into the wall. Barry grinned into every kiss, ridiculously happy that he seemed to have gotten one over on Len; he had been back for nearly two minutes before Len slowed down enough to smell the napkin-wrapped burger and fries in the pillow case. When he did, his face turned from Barry to stare instead at the carefully wrapped pillowcase.

“And what is that?” he drawled out. Barry was still pinned to the wall so he just held it up, out of easy reach.

“Breakfast?”

Len eased back out of his space and dropped down into the bunk. He didn't let Barry get far away though, catching him by a front pocket and dragging him into the lower bunk with him. They sat facing each other as they ate, the smell of the burgers and curly fries taking over the cell. When it was gone, the smell lingered. It crept out into the middle of the cellblock and started waking people up early. An hour before breakfast. As the noise level in the block inched up a little higher than usual, Barry was all smiles about the trickery.

“You aren't such an angel, then,” Len realized. He seemed proud of it. Barry just shrugged it off.

“Nobody’s perfect. We've all just got stuff we're good at,” he pointed out. Len leaned over and caught Barry by the hips, tugging him closer to climb between his legs and kiss him down into _his_ pillow. Funny how the man wasn't so territorial anymore.

Barry didn't get to sleep again until about fifteen minutes before the morning’s first count, and that brief nap was taken curled up at Len’s back on the narrow lower bunk.

 

****

 

Yawning and stretching didn’t actually do anything toward keeping Barry awake. He wasn’t hungry at breakfast and stood in line for appearances, collecting a carton of milk and enough easily-pocketed food to get him to lunch. He straddled the bench at the table and slumped a bit on his elbow. He slipped up once, rested his forehead to Len’s shoulder and the man didn’t shoo him off for it, let him doze for a minute before he realized what he’d done and sat up on his own.

It wasn’t raining, though, so they went out to the yard after breakfast. It wasn’t for long, Barry figured he could last at least another hour without a nap. He left Len to his yard haggling and deal-making that had to be done without the cop around. That left Barry on the second bench of the bleachers and Len sitting above him or occasionally wandering down to stretch and chat with people between them.

And then Lewis showed up. “Hello, _Barry Allen_.”

The extra distance caused a problem when Lewis approached, by himself, while Len was on the other end of the benches. It hit something almost like a panic for Len because his dad snuck up on Barry instead of approach him. Barry was fine, kept his distance over an arms length away, and kept Lewis in sight. Len jumped up to the bleachers and ran across to stand behind Barry, look down at his father. His dad waved him down.

“Let’s chat,” he invited. Things seemed like maybe they might be peacefully intended. Barry dared breathe a little easier at the prospect of maybe facing a day in Iron Heights that Lewis didn’t go after him for existing. Len glanced at Barry, making sure he was still where he had left him sitting minutes earlier, despite already having a hand on his shoulder. Then he walked to the end of the bleachers and dropped down to stand in front of his dad. Barry thumbed back over his shoulder.

“Uh... I should go...”

“Yes,” said Lewis, even as Len said “Nope.” He caught at Barry’s ankle as added assurance, so Barry stayed put. He squinted up at the clouds to hide the smug grin that threatened as Lewis got offended by his son ignoring him.

“I want an answer, Leo. What is this? No more sass and backtalk. What is your angle on this pain in the ass-”

Len cut him off before his father could work himself up into another angry fit. He pointed at Barry, his hand still hidden where it rested on the bench. “No angle, pops. That right there is mine. I don't want him broken or dead. So you can't have him.”

“He screwed the operation,” said Lewis. Len shrugged at it.

“Yeah, _and_? He's gonna serve time for it too. Straight-laced kid like him, he’s stuck in here? That's worse than anything you could do. So just... leave him. To me.”

Like a shot out of nowhere, Lewis Snart open-palm slapped his son across the face. Barry jumped, expecting a fight, but Len didn't do anything. Lewis was still a sick old man, one arm in a sling to hide a dead hand, and Len didn't fight back. They stood close enough to each other that the attack went unnoticed by everyone except Barry. Len stared at the ground, a full grown man looking like a beat kid.

“Don't give me orders, son. Now I want that boy’s head on a spike, and I expect you to deliver,” said Lewis. Barry still sat on the bench three feet away, there was no way for him to pretend he hadn't heard it. He kept his head down because Len looked down, but he still looked to Len, for some clue as to which way the man would go. Len worked his jaw, like he couldn't find words. Then he shook his head and looked up at his father.

“I won't. He’s a _cop_ , Lewis! You want a riot over this, fine, start one. Pick a fight with the bulls. Get your own hands bloody so you can wage a war against a _kid_. Make an accident out of it,” said Len. His defense was a new idea, a solution as a bargaining chip, and it was almost preprogrammed. “But. _I won't._ I am asking you to leave him to me. Let me handle him while we’re in here.”

“Why?” Lewis demanded.

“He's something to do,” returned Len. “While he’s here, he’s mine. That’s all.”

“He's getting out?”

“Maybe in a few days,” Len said. Barry cringed and stared down at the bench under his feet. It was scary to see Len roll over for Lewis. And it was worse because he was rolling over on Barry. All Barry could do about it was wish he could turn invisible because Len was his only backup in the yard, and Len was trying to keep his own head attached.

“Then stay out of my way,” said Lewis. Len straightened up.

“No. Alright? You went after my baby sister and I didn't screw with your operation, so stop screwing with mine now. This stupid cop is nothing to you, so just step off.”

There was a pause as Lewis found a new angle. “You need him for something?”

Len nodded, angry. “I just _told you_ I did.”

“Alive?”

“Yes, damnit!” Len pounded a fist on the bench not far from Barry’s foot. Lewis considered the both of them.

“Fine,” he said finally. “If you _can't_ keep him safe, it's on you. He's _your problem_.”

“Thank you,” muttered Len. Barry tried to look away before he got caught paying attention, but he still saw Lewis clap a hand to Len’s shoulder and then his face. There was a dismissal to it as much as a benevolent forgiveness. It made even Barry angry but he pretended not to have seen. He stayed where he was on the bench until Lewis left. Len watched him for a moment before catching his attention back, waving for him to get off the bleachers.

“Sorry,” Len said, quiet as Barry jumped down. Barry ignored it.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine.” Len nodded. It was a lie and Barry saw through it. He shoved at Len, surprising the man enough to make him drop out of whatever funk Lewis had put him in.

“You’re not okay. Don’t lie right now, man. I will kick your ass later and you know I can,” Barry said. He hung on to the front of Len’s shirt, meeting his glare because it meant he had the man’s attention. The fight came back and he had riled Len to anger.

“I’m not lying,” Len spat back at him. “That’s why I kept you there. You know what I know.”

Barry nodded. “What? That you’re gonna serve me up when you’re done having _fun_?”

Len pushed back then, a gut punch to wind him, mostly from surprise. He tangled his arms with Barry’s and pushed, dropping him forward to get behind him. Then, hands locked around Barry’s wrists to hold Barry’s arms crossed, Len moved up behind him. He held on, the two standing between the bleachers in what could have looked like a hug to anyone looking on. Len kept Barry tucked close, his knee bent into the back of Barry’s thigh as a threat.

“Don’t push me, Baer,” Len whispered in his ear. “We’re on the same side as long as you want to be. Tell me when you’re done and I’m gone.”

“We’re _not done_ ,” said Barry. He felt something like fear at the suggestion; he didn't _want_ to be done. “But I don't want my head on a spike, either. And if he's gonna push you around, you’re gonna lie to me when he's got you cornered, what am I supposed to do?”

Len’s hold shifted. He let go of Barry’s wrists to wrap his arms around and hold him instead. Len turned his face to the back of Barry’s neck, a simple kiss pressed behind his jaw as he held them still. Barry caught the end of the bleachers for support, feeling dizzy as he tried to sort out the confused emotions hitting him as Len all but hid behind him.

“Just trust me. _Please_. I’ll handle it,” Len said, his voice muffled by Barry’s jacket collar. That was probably the worst thing Len could have said to him. Barry dropped his head back to look up at the clouds. He was so screwed.

“Okay,” he said. “But if I get shish kebabed, Cisco destroys the cold gun.”

“I can make another one,” Len grumbled.

“Liar,” returned Barry. He felt the man laugh against his neck. It was frustrating and Barry loosened Len’s hold enough to turn around. Len didn’t let him go but he found other places to look instead of at Barry. He looked close to crying but Barry wasn’t going to call him on that one.

“We should go in,” he suggested. Len shook his head and eased back.

“I’m not running to go hide,” he said on a sneer. “I’ve got some business to see to. Make sure I have the numbers I’m gonna need.”

“Numbers for what?” asked Barry. “How?”

“Not answering that,” said Len. His lips quirked up into a shadow of the smug grin as he let go of Barry. He caught his chin in a light hold, just a touch, dragged his thumb over Barry’s lower lip. “Cop.”

Barry rolled his eyes. “Fine. What am I supposed to do then?”

“Stay out of trouble,” said Len with a shrug. “I won’t be far. But he’s not going to back off, so just... don’t be stupid.”

And just like that, Len was back to his normal self. Barry missed the days when he could punch the man in the face without feeling bad about it.

 

****

 

Left alone to the yard, Barry found a clear patch of lawn, in easy view of the relative safety of the guard towers, and started going through the stances and movements that Oliver had taught him that morning. It was using up energy, so even if he was mentally tired and stressed, physically he still had the fuel to run on. More importantly, it would pass the time without getting him within arm’s reach of Len for awhile and they could both sort out their own problems.

The downside, of course, was that Barry was tired enough that he focused more on remembering the slowed fighting movements and less on his surroundings. He wasn’t fully alert to anyone who might approach from any direction other than directly in front of face. Barry did notice the man who approached just beyond the reach of his pointing fingers. He straightened up and prepared to have to deal with Lewis Snart when he saw his ugly mug look in his direction. However, he missed the man who approached from behind him entirely until the man caught him with an arm around the neck. It probably looked playful to the guards in the tower but Barry felt a very dangerous pressure at his throat. Hoping to stall the apparent ass-kicking about to commence, Barry held his hands up in a hesitant peace.

“Guys... they worked this out. Isn’t it a little early to get cranky?” he asked. “You look cranky... have ya had breakfast?”

“Aren’t you cute,” grumbled Snart. Barry grinned at him but wisely didn’t inform the man that his son thought so. He still tried for the safer ground of talking.

“Look, seriously, is this stuff really necessary?” Barry asked. “We’re all locked in, you’ve got more guys backing you up than I do, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Lewis seemed to agree, waved a hand, and rather than his minion loosening his hold on Barry’s neck, he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Lewis walked up and got in his face, all pretense of playful yard interaction gone. There was a whistle from the tower behind them and Lewis happily ignored it.

“You’re in here and you’re staying in here. Nobody screws over my operation and lives to tell about it. Whatever you’ve got on my boy doesn’t mean shit to me. Is that understood?” Lewis talked right in Barry’s face. The man had definitely already had breakfast because Barry could smell the bacon on his breath and it permanently ruined his own appetite for the beloved meal side. Barry coughed and tried to wriggle loose, his hand sneaking up to block the elbow trying to close around his windpipe. Lewis took advantage of the distraction and punched him in the ribs.

“Pops!” came Len’s voice, from blessedly not far away. “Stop stealing my toys. You’re making the bulls nervous.”

Lewis stepped aside and Barry saw Len and his friends on approach. Looking much more put together and like his usual self than he had a half an hour earlier, Len pointed at the guard tower where the guard was still yelling warnings, then he held his hands up to be sure the guards got the hint not to shoot. Lewis looked up at the towers then over to the man that held Barry. Suddenly Barry could get a full breath and he shoved away, trying not to favor his bruised side. It wouldn’t have hurt so badly if he had gotten more than fifteen minutes sleep, he was sure, but that was probably just his pride trying to save itself. When he got his feet under him and looked around, it looked dangerously like Len’s backup outnumbered Lewis. Rather than point that out, Barry just started walking away. That was apparently not the appropriate response because Len caught his attention.

“Barry! Where you goin’,” he called out. Barry almost ignored it, almost kept walking back toward the relative safety of his cell. He didn’t want to deal with the Snart’s family drama again that morning. But instead he stopped, because he had a deal worked out with Len and he really rather wanted it to continue unchallenged. He stared at the sky for a minute, wishing it was raining so he could just go sleep, and then trudged back over to Len. He did hold his side then as protection because Len grabbed him by the shoulder so he could face Lewis.

“I told you, Lewis, you don’t get this one,” Len said. The men stood maybe six feet apart but Barry swore Len was yelling. Rather than engage with them, he tried to shift how he stood so he faced Len more than the man’s father or his cronies, looked back at the prison building or down at the ground rather than try to keep the scowl off his face. Barry was surprised when Len caught him by the back of the neck and had him actually look up at Lewis instead.

“Now just to be nice, Barry, tell the old man you’re sorry,” Len ordered. He wasn’t angry, there was no actual force to it. If anything Len thought it was funny. It was part of the show. Barry wasn’t feeling quite quick enough to appropriately tell his friend to go to hell with that request.

“I didn’t do anything,” Barry muttered. “I’m not apologizing.”

“Try again,” said Len. Barry stalled. He was going to have words with his dear old protector for this stunt. Later. When he was less pissed off and more awake. Finally, reluctant and planning on holding a grudge for it, Barry shrugged and looked over at Lewis again.

“I’m sorry you think I’m the one who fucked up your operation,” he said. He tried very hard to keep the sass in check. Beside him, Len grinned and thumped him on the back.

“See? That was easy. All friends now. No more making the bulls get all trigger happy,” said Len. He kept hold of the collar of Barry’s jacket, more to keep him close and steered out of Lewis’ reach than anything else. At the slightest hint, Barry started walking toward the bleachers that Len and his boys had claimed. The situation was defused before anything blew up, everyone could retreat to their corners safely. So they did.

“I’m gonna make _you_ apologize later,” Barry grumbled, only barely loud enough for Len to hear him. Len laughed and rubbed his shoulder.

“Somebody needs a nap,” he observed. Barry nodded. Len sat down after Barry did, still monitoring him. “You’re tired. You could sleep.”

Barry shrugged, glanced around the bleachers. Sure, they had people who would back Len in a fight, but that didn’t mean there was anybody who would watch his back if he rested. “Not here I can't.”

Weighing something out in his convoluted mind, Len stared at Barry. Keen eyes took in everything and Barry was just tired enough to be annoyed that he thought they were pretty. It wasn’t fair that he had to go and trust Leonard Snart. Thankfully the man hadn’t figured out mind-reading yet. He just nodded and stood up, waved Barry back up to his feet. “Fine. Library then.”

 

****

 

The library was a space hobbled together out of old administration offices when the prison had first been expanded in the seventies. The doorways had been widened in between rooms, enforceable fire-doors added to the entrances that led to the hall shared by the infirmary. It wasn't a monitored area, aside from a couple of lifer trustees who had been assigned daytime shifts to keep track of the books. They had a good collection, all donated, covering a lot of subjects. A sign posted on the door listed times of the week there would be literacy classes, and a couple of GED/education class meetings, for anyone who wanted to sign up. There were padded armchairs spaced at random, too, not just benches and tables; it was a luxury that looked ideal for napping. It was the only place inside the walls that didn't _look_ like a prison. Monitored or not, it seemed like a pretty safe space.

Len knew his way around and went right to the section he wanted, pulled a book off the shelf on some kind of engineering. After the stunt in the yard with his dad, Barry was just a little irritated at Len so he wandered into another room. The bookshelves were made in the prison’s workshop, which gave them a kind of hodgepodge feel even though they were pretty much all exactly the same. Some of them just looked a little closer to dropping into a pile of splinters than others.

Barry found a newish looking shelf to hide behind and started poking at book spines. He had ended up in the assorted psychology and health section, picked up a book about dealing with “problem personalities in the workplace” and skimmed it. He actually read the entire thing, cover to cover, but he was tired so he wasn't sure how much of what he learned would stick. But he knew enough now to confirm that, yes, Len was a jerk and he was fully justified in wanting to punch in his face. It presented a slight problem that he also wanted to kiss it, but the book didn't address that issue.

After another couple of books - more wasted time trying to self-diagnose a problem that he already knew the name for but didn't want to own up to yet - Barry found a nice, somewhat comfortable looking, dusty armchair. He crashed into it without a second thought, sprawled on pillows considerably more padded than the benches outside, and closed his eyes.

It felt like his eyes were hardly closed before they were startled open again. A smelly cloth of some kind was shoved in his mouth, gagging him awake. Barry didn't think he had actually had a chance to sleep, but he certainly knew he was awake. At the same time as a hand closed over his mouth to keep the gag in place, other hands closed around his arms. He was hefted up by the elbows and knees and carried out of the chair, out of the annexed library room through a door half hidden by shelves.

It was ridiculously easy, like it was a team that had kidnapped people together before. It was an MO of Lewis Snart, Barry remembered through the fog caused by choking on whatever godawful stench they had soaked the rag in before it went in his mouth. Lisa. Lisa had told them Len was carried off. There was a van involved- _what the actual hell did they put on that rag?_

Choking and coughing, Barry had to work hard to remember not to defend himself. He was tired, he would karate-vibe-chop somebody dead, and then really would end up in prison. Instead his struggles got him half-dragged down the hall from the library, past a chain-link fence that Barry was fairly certain was supposed to be locked, and then into what seemed like the laundry unit. Everything was muggy and hot, humid and damp, unless he was already sweating from the fight he knew was coming. He was tossed on the ground without ceremony then.

Barry rolled to get to his knees, gagging the rag out of his mouth. He nearly choked on it again when someone kicked him in the gut. Barry had to put his effort into putting space between him and the men who had grabbed him. There were four of him, as best he could tell through the tears in his eyes from the burning in his throat and lungs. It wasn't much mystery who they were and why they were there. Lewis Snart was probably somewhere nearby.

The first thing he touched as he tried to gain his feet was a large pipe on the wall, and, as it happened, it burned and sizzled at the palm of his hand. Barry hung on enough to pull himself up and then backed away, holding his wrist. Definitely the laundry room. He had burned his hand on the hot water pipe - now that he was standing he could see the big sign that clearly warned everyone not to touch - and he still had a hard time breathing from whatever chemical they had soaked the rag in. It now coated his throat and burned only half as badly as his hand.

Barry was starting this fight at a serious disadvantage.

One of the men, about his height and size, swung a mop at him. Slimy water hit him in the face as the wet tendrils of the mop slapped around his head with the help of a wooden pile and a metal bracket. The kindergarten teacher in Barry’s head reminded him that the floor was wet so he mustn't run when he tried to scramble back from the attack. It was a few seconds too late. Barry's soft prison-issued shoes slipped on the wet cement as he ducked from the mop. He fell, caught himself with his scuffed up, burned hand, and tried to catch hold of the mop with the other.

Someone else came along then and kicked him, first in the hip, launching him up off the ground, and then square in the middle of the stomach, sending him backwards onto the cement with no support. Another kick came from behind, landing dangerously close to his spine. Soft shoes made no difference in the impact damage they could deliver. It was hard to keep track of a four-sided attack without relying on speed. Barry raised his arms to cover his head, curled his knees up to block his stomach. Somebody bigger than him caught him by the head and tried to pull him out of his curled up, defensive position as his attacker’s buddies rushed in with kicking feet.

Reflexes were hard to ignore and some systems kicked online, Barry’s hearing kicking up a notch when he recognized the sound of a steel pipe being picked up off the ground. He ignored the kicks and raised his arm at the last possible second, trying to catch the pipe he could sense being swung toward his head. Unfortunately, he did catch the pipe, at just the wrong angle. It felt like it went right through his arm, but his fingers managed to cling to it. The arm was broken, just above his wrist.

One hand burned, one arm broken, and it felt like his ribcage wanted to collapse. But Barry only defended himself. He couldn't give up the Flash. No speedy escape. No vibing. No phasing through the floor and praying there was a basement below it. Just defense. Just hang in until they gave up. Keep moving so they couldn't kill. It was a positive, healthy outlook on life, because it kept him out of Argus later.

Barry could take a beating, he knew. He had suffered through worse before. But it still hurt. The thugs parted on one side. Lewis Snart stood over him, eyes narrowed.

“You've got a hard head,” he observed. That was, for some reason, funny as hell to Barry just then and he laughed. Lewis crouched down, caught his chin in his one good hand, scrunched up Barry’s face and triggered the bruises that still smarted from when he had been kicked, whacked with the mop, or when he had punched himself in the face trying to block a kick to the face with his arm, he wasn't sure which. Barry felt the tiniest trickle of blood at the corner of his brow from where he had scraped it against the cement.

Oh. _Oh no._

Barry realized what had caught Lewis’s attention and tried to shake his head free. The scrape against the floor was too small; it had already started to heal. Lewis twisted his hold and caught his jaw, which hurt like the devil and Barry held still.

“Hey, any of you got a knife?” Lewis asked. Barry jerked away as one of the goons handed Lewis a cell-made shank. Barry was fenced in by the men’s legs and Lewis, with hardly room to roll off his side without hitting someone’s shins. When Lewis grabbed his broken arm, Barry let out a surprised shout, and he hardly noticed the man stab the end of the knife into his skin. More blood mixed in with the soggy, dirty water that soaked all over Barry. That was another wound that was going to heal up under Lewis’ watchful eye.

There was a loud _bang_ as the heavy door to the laundry unit slammed open. Everyone jumped.

“Lewis!” came an angry shout. Barry still hung onto the bar but the rest of him seemed to collapse into the cement as his attackers backed off at Len’s voice. “Back off!”

“You can't keep him, Leo,” Lewis warned. “He put you back in this place. That's on _him_. I told you. He doesn't get to enjoy it.”

Len shoved the goons back and moved to check on Barry. He was already swearing under his breath as he crouched beside him. Len glared over at his father.

“You have _five seconds_ to leave,” he warned. Barry realized then that, as it happened, Len could get rather scary when he was angry. He was glad the look was aimed at Lewis, not him. Lewis met it without flinching, expression completely dead, cold. Then he moved to catch Barry’s attention back. He poked at the wrist he still held, dragged the blood aside from the already healing cut.

“This could be more fun than killing you. Since that didn't stick. Huh,” he said. Lewis looked down at Len as he rose to his full height. “Learn something new every day.”

Len stared up at his father, keeping an eye on all of them in the room.

“HELP!” Len shouted out, full volume, full anger. “GUARD! Somebody!”

Lewis and the others took the hint that their five seconds were up. They left the room at a fair speed, Len shouting after them, “Medic! Help!”

“Okay, could you _not_ , with the noise?” Barry said, voice more a grunt than anything that worked. Len tried to help him sit up.

“You look like hell...”

Barry snorted. “Thanks for the help?”

Len ignored the sarcasm and started getting Barry up on his feet again. “I told you not to wander off. I don't have anyone in there. I didn’t even fucking hear-”

Barry chose to ignore the _I-Told-You-So_ and concentrated on the problem of not losing his lunch when gravity hit. The problem that hit _after_ that was somehow more complicated. “Lewis knows I’ll heal.”

The significance didn't seem to sink in for Len. He started checking Barry over, arms, ribs, neck, just careful prodding to verify suspicion. “Your arm looks broken, Barry...”

Barry nodded. “It _won't_ in five minutes.”

“Shit.”

Len ducked under Barry’s unbroken arm, very careful, and started helping him limp toward the door. They met the guards at the hall but Len insisted on helping Barry to the infirmary himself. It was probably to stall, give Barry a little more time to heal. But then again, Len seemed very genuinely worried about Barry.

That was the last conscious thought Barry entertained before he passed out completely, nearly dragged Len down with him.

 

****

 

When Barry woke up, his arm hurt a little, like it had been stuck in one spot too long. He opened his eyes and remembered the fight. A lot more should hurt. But it didn't. Small perk of being a meta. But a definite complication when he woke up in what looked like an ER triage wing. The prison’s infirmary. A second consideration of his surroundings showed Barry one of his wrists was handcuffed to the bedrail. That figured.

A nurse saw him awake and looking around. She walked over and stood at the side of the bed that wasn't restrained.

“Feeling better then, Mr. Allen?” she asked. Barry offered her a sleepy smile.

“Yeah. I guess I really needed a nap,” he said.

“Considering you've been asleep the last twelve hours, I’d guess so,” she replied. Barry closed his eyes, mentally cringing. He wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor or any other machines that could tell on him, which was good because there was a flare of panic.

“I guess I missed dinner.”

“Yep. But I can get you something if you need it,” she told him. “What do you remember from this morning?”

“Uh... not much,” he lied, not sure what Len had told them. He didn't want to get his cellmate in trouble with a story that didn't match up.

“Your cellmate said he found you outside the library looking like you had been attacked,” the nurse told him. “Do you remember anything about that?”

Barry shook his head quickly. If he knew anything about prison, it was that snitches get stitches. And he couldn't actually afford stitches. “No... I fell asleep in the library... and woke up here.”

“You were awake a few times the last few hours,” the nurse told him. She seemed to sense the lie. “At least enough to refuse to cooperate. You hit the doctor when he tried to check your arm and you wouldn't stay still for an X-ray. We couldn't even get near you to clean you up until you’d been out about an hour.”

Barry was horrified. “Oh my god. Is he okay? I've never done that... I mean, I've been to doctors plenty of times and never, ever-”

The nurse held up a hand, a concerned smile trying to calm him down. “He's fine. But will you let us check you out?”

“I’m fine,” said Barry. “Honestly. I feel fine.”

He tugged at his wrist in the handcuff, rolled the other wrist and flexed all his fingers in illustration. “See?”

The nurse watched, assessing for potential injuries just like Caitlin would. She nodded, satisfied. Then she raised a hand, swept a pointed finger around her own face. “The notes the last shift left said there was bruising. You were dirty and muddy...”

Barry sagged against the pillows, not sure how to work his way out of it. “Well, I mean, I was in a scuffle before I went to the library. I was outside and the grass was wet and everything...”

Barry was a terrible liar. The nurse made a notation in the chart. “Alright then. Well. Do you want me to get you some dinner? If you’re feeling fine, I’m sure you’re starving.”

“I’m good. I can just... leave, right?” Barry asked. The nurse tucked the chart back to her hip, that one classic, pissed-off-sassy nurse move.

“ _Not_ right,” the woman replied. She wasn't unfriendly, but she wasn't happy about it. “Your cellmate brought you in. You’ve been belligerent and we can't determine actual range of injuries you may have come in with. And we can't confirm where, when, or how those injuries happened. So policy is that we hold you for twenty-four to forty-eight hours to be sure you’re safe. For all we know, your cellmate kicked your ass. We won't be responsible for letting you go back to that without you having the time to sort out for yourself if you want to report something or not.”

There was nothing Barry could say to that. If he were on the other side of her clipboard, Barry knew that looking at evidence at hand, he would probably make the same call. He nodded absently, trying to sort out how to handle his usual pattern. He wouldn't exactly be allowed to “call home” to tell his friends he was okay. This was going to be a problem for them. He let out a long sigh and tried to act like he was cool with it. He smiled a little and said, “Hey, I can actually get some quiet and sleep. I’ll take it.”

“Mmhmm.” The nurse didn't seem convinced, nor remotely surprised. She had heard Barry’s story before. And there was something like pity as she looked at him because of it. Barry tried not to look like a victim of abuse, but it was probably not convincing given that he was sprawled out on a medical gurney in dirty prison-issued clothes still stiff and gross from the messes on the laundry room floor. He offered up a sheepish smile.

“I guess... since I’m here... can I get, like, dinner? Maybe, like, a couple of them?”

****


	13. Chapter 13

The next shift let Barry out at breakfast, promising him it was safe to talk to a guard if he needed to go back to the sick ward to get away from a problem. They still had no proof of injury, and Barry maintained the story that he had just been really tired.

Playing a little on the nurse’s kindness, he asked for a sweatshirt because he was cold and he gave Barry a clean hoodie to hide in. It kept his face hidden on the walk back to his cell. There were supposed to be bruises on his face and he didn't feel like slamming his face into the wall to replicate them around Lewis. That man knowing he could heal was going to be a problem. If Lewis cornered his son on Barry’s healing, that would get Lewis Snart one short step away from the Flash, and that would be the worst possible outcome from the whole prison experience.

Barry expected the cell to be empty, had counted on the whole cell block being empty as everyone was at breakfast. He wanted a shower and he didn't want to get his ass kicked waiting around for Snart and his buddies to get done eating to track him down there. His plan was to get his extra set of prison clothes, hit the showers, and then pick up whatever he could at what was left of breakfast.

Instead, he found Len still in the cell. He looked mildly close to worried, if it could be said that the man ever got worried for anyone. He stood up from the lower bunk, surprised as Barry walked in.

“Hey,” Len said. Barry offered a shadow of a smile, his mind busy on too many things. He started digging under his mattress for where he had stashed his extra set of garb.

“Don't worry, Len. Sit down. I’m fine,” said Barry.

“Wasn't worried,” said Len. “You heal.”

At the reminder, Barry nodded and dropped the subject. He found his clothes and turned to leave. Len still stood between him and the gate.

“I gotta hurry...” said Barry as a hint. Len tilted his head, caught on. He backed up then, waved Barry out ahead of him, and walked with him to the showers. There was a small sense of relief when Barry walked in to find an empty locker room. At least one plan had worked as he wanted it to that day. They stripped down and hit the showers, Barry picking a different spot this time, in the corner, so he could see the door before anyone who entered could see him. Len seemed to have resumed protective duties and took the shower between Barry and the door. But he left Barry alone, let him do his own thing, no steering or bossing.

As far as Barry could figure out, it was Len’s way of apologizing for leaving him hanging the day before. Maybe. He hoped. Barry washed the day-old crust from the fight on the laundry floors off and felt a little better. He glanced over at Len, caught his attention just that easy.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. He tilted his head in a brief invitation. That was all it took. Len was in his space and careful about it.

“I didn’t know about the doors in that room. I thought you could get some sleep in the library,” Len said, right at Barry’s ear as he held him around the shoulders. “It's quieter there, the chairs...”

Barry had to smile at that. “Well. I caught up on plenty of sleep in the infirmary. So you weren't entirely wrong about that.”

“Ha.” There wasn't any amusement to it. Len cinched his arms tighter as the water worked between them, tucked a kiss to his jaw. The words ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ probably weren't in the man’s vocabulary, but he was definitely on top of offering comfort to make up for the failing.

They didn't have a lot of time to mess around, just a minute to relax. And whether he had worried or not, Len seemed a lot happier once he had Barry wrapped in a hug under the weak spray of water. Barry knew he felt better for it, which only made the day worse somehow.

Len was the last person he should want around him then. But he did.

 

****

 

After a quick breakfast, Barry didn’t go out to the yard. Len eventually put in his appearances but he didn’t stay gone for very long. At lunch, Barry kept the hood on and favored the wrist that had been broken the day before, pretending to still be hurt. He would sell it however he had to in case Lewis was watching. So far, statistically, he knew Lewis was watching. Except in the cells, he couldn’t, and Barry liked it in his own space, with his back to the bars so he was out of sight.

After lunch, he sat with his back to the bars on Len’s bed. On the other side of a deck of cards sat Len, and they argued idly over a hand of _Go Fish,_ because what the hell else better did they have to do? Neither one of them were going near the library again for a while. It was rather hilarious trying to play the kids’ game with Len because he was a compulsive liar when he thought it would help him win, and the entire game was built around both players telling the truth. Barry was learning to lie back when Len claimed not to have a card; it was like Len forgot Barry knew how math worked to keep track of the cards in play.

Barry jumped when the bars behind his head cracked and rattled from the smack of a baton. He looked over his shoulder to see Joe’s guard-friend, Officer Ortega. “Allen. You’ve got visitors.”

“Who?” Barry asked. He tugged the hood back over his head and stood up. Len watched him like a hawk until the gate of their cell rumbled open.

“It’s your lawyers,” said the guard. Len was carefully neutral on that; the case was still a very big sore spot for the both of them. Barry for once didn’t want to talk to Laurel, given how the day had gone so far. He kind of figured he’d had enough bad news to last him a while. Still, he was expected, he would be escorted by an armed guard, and he was curious why the guard had implied there was more than one lawyer present. He followed the man out. He kept his head down and moved carefully slow on his way out of the cellblock.

Ortega was nice about the slow down. Out in the hall with no one around, he looked to Barry with open concern. “You sure you’re alright?”

Barry nodded. “Clean bill of health. Promise.”

“Rumor is your cellie put you in the infirmary,” Ortega said. “That’s the opposite of what we were betting on. Sorry, man.”

“It wasn’t Len,” Barry said. He tried to be sincere about it, tried to stamp down on the anger. “But the rumor mill is going to do what it does, you know?”

“Then who was it?” Ortega asked. Barry offered up a sympathetic smile but no answers to that one. He walked into the open visitation room and saw Laurel and Oliver both waiting at a table for him. They looked worried, which couldn’t be a great sign. Barry sat down across from them, hood still up. Oliver noticed, pointed at the sweater right off.

“What’s this?” he asked. The worry was borderline anger.

“I’m hiding. Can we talk about it later?” Barry replied. Oliver tilted his head.

“Depends. Where were you last night?”

“The infirmary.”

“What?” asked both Laurel and Oliver at once. Barry cringed. This was going _great_ so far...

“Later, okay? Like, tonight. That _Later_.”

There was an unspoken threat to it but Oliver nodded. If Barry didn’t show up at lights-out, there would possibly be trouble. He looked to Laurel, hoping the woman could save him. “Why are my _lawyers_ here today?”

Laurel and Oliver exchanged a look before the actual lawyer of the pair took a breath. She shook her head.

“I heard from the DA yesterday. They’re approaching your case like you’re the one who wiped Snart’s records. They can’t prove it, but that’s what they’re assuming.”

Barry folded his arms over the table and pounded his head against his arms. There was actually nothing he could say to that. Any response at all really would just confirm it all for them.

“So they’ll be adding charges by the time of your hearing, not dropping them,” she went on. “And Cisco still can’t find Lisa Snart. So without her to testify, we are steadily losing ground. The security video won’t be enough.”

“Of course,” grumbled Barry. He reluctantly looked up again, shoulders still slumped. He took a breath and forced himself to let go of some of the creeping tension. He wasn’t sure what his next options were, but they weren’t looking awesome. “So, I guess... first off. Stop looking for Lisa. Even if you do find her, she won’t say anything. If Len finds out you’re looking for her, everything in here will just kind of explode.”

“She’s still our best shot-”

“Just don’t. Okay? No.”

Oliver didn’t like that answer at all. He shifted how he sat, squared his shoulders and closed his hands together on the table in front of himself. “Do we need to talk to Joe and get you moved?”

“No! Me and Len are good, okay? I want to keep it that way. Which means no going after Lisa,” said Barry. He looked to Laurel again. “What about pleading out? Is there a way I can deal and still keep my job with the department?”

“You couldn’t even be the janitor. It won’t make the DA happy if you keep working for the city at all,” said Laurel. “He’s going to throw the book at you over this robbery thing because he can’t prove you tampered with files. That’s an abuse of your position with the department, that’s the thing he wants to get you for.”

Barry shook his head. “I want to keep my job. If I have to serve time for it, fine, whatever. Just see if you can let me keep working as a CSI.”

Laurel reluctantly agreed to it. “I just can’t promise it’ll work, Barry.”

“The city needs you out on the streets, not in here,” said Oliver. Barry nodded. He tried to shrug it off.

“If I have to pull double duty, fine. At least I know they’ll let me sleep it off in the infirmary.”

 

****

 

In summary, it hadn’t been a good day. Barry had to take a deep breath as he walked back to his cell, had to remind himself that he would get through it. It looked bad, sure, but he had a good team behind him. He could handle it, however it worked out. None of it was working out how he would have wanted it to, but Barry was more accustomed to that than not. He was used to things that hurt.

When he got back to the cell, he didn’t feel much like arguing with Len over cards, so he jumped up to his own space on the top bunk. There was a moment of quiet after the gate rattled shut, and then Len stood up. He leaned on the edge of the bunk, waited Barry out. There wasn’t much to volunteer, so Barry kept quiet, stared at the ceiling from his pillow. He did look over at Len when the man tugged on the edge of the hood.

“So. How’d it go?”

“They’re going to throw the book at me for wiping your record. Laurel didn’t sound, like, super hopeful about it,” Barry replied. “But she’s still gonna try.”

The news didn’t seem to make Len happy or anything. Barry actually watched for some sign of gloating, even a slight grin, but there was only a flash of anger. It didn’t need to be said that Len could fix things with the court. He wasn’t the most reliable of witnesses, maybe, but he could validate Barry’s testimony. But Barry wasn’t going to ask again. It wasn’t in the cards. They would have to find another way around, that was all there was to it. Instead, he shrugged and offered up a halfhearted grin as Len brushed fingers across his cheek. Just a simple touch to show the man wasn’t really all that cold.

He left Barry alone until dinner but the second Barry’s shoes touched concrete, Len became his _shadow_. Very hands-on with the PDA and not entirely polite about it. Barry shrugged him off as they waited in line and Len just wrapped him up in his arms, put his hands in the front pockets of Barry’s hoodie.

“Trust me,” he whispered in response to the protest. Barry scowled at it but kept his head down, let Len do whatever damage he felt appropriate to their reputations on the yard. Barry’s was already pretty well set in stone with most of the crowd just because he was a cop and his foster-dad was a cop. It didn’t help that his real dad had done time, only to be cleared; his dad’s reputation had been that of a snitch for a time, so it all rolled downhill to Barry. In light of Laurel’s news that afternoon, there was no telling how long Barry would be stuck there, so there was no sense worrying what got back to the police department. He was stuck in Iron Heights, he had bigger things to worry about than what others thought of his time there.

And the intentional attention felt good, whatever Len’s angle was on it all. So when he sat Barry down on the bench in front of him, settled his legs along either side of his, conducted his usual evening socializing and business like Barry wasn’t really there as anything other than maybe a comfortable piece of furniture, Barry had to fight the grin that threatened. It was a game, sure, it had to be, but Len was including him in it. Barry’s only job was to pretend he was losing the hand, and after spending all night in the infirmary, that wasn’t that hard to do. All the hard work for it was on Len.

“What the hell is this,” Silver wanted to know. He seemed somewhat unsettled by the fact that Barry had been burrito’d into his hoodie and tucked away to hide in Len’s lap. It was not the usual prison yard closeness from Snart.

“My friend has been finding trouble too easily lately. So I’m keeping him busy instead,” came Len’s easy reply. He tugged on Barry’s arm and Barry automatically rolled it away. The tug of war resulted in Len settling an arm around his waist to make him sit still instead. Barry allowed it, had to look away when Len tucked his chin on his shoulder. “It's a lot more fun when the toys play back. Isn't it, Barry?”

But since Len was playing at being a boss, Barry didn't reply, just slouched and tried to stay out of the way. And tried not to get too distracted by Len’s prodding at him. It was just a show, he wasn't supposed to play back, but a part of him really wanted to.

It was a mild distraction out in the yard, but Barry got his revenge when they got back to their bunk. If Len wanted his attention so badly, he would gladly share.

“So what was all that about?” Barry asked. He plopped down in the middle of Len’s bed and didn’t shove over to let him in, sprawled out with his feet on the floor and leaned back on his hands to take up as much space as possible. “Because trust me is usually what precedes a plan with you, not public displays of forced affection.”

Len crouched in front of him, grinned up at him with his elbows on Barry’s knees. “I figured you’d catch on.”

One eyebrow arched to show his suspicion despite the amusement, Barry nodded. “I’m a little worried we work so well together.”

“Not where I thought I’d be this time last week, nope,” agreed Len. “You gonna give me back my bed?”

“Maybe. You gonna tell me what the show was for?” replied Barry.

Len shrugged it off. “Maybe later.”

The response he received then was pure indifference. Barry didn’t budge. Len smiled and leaned up to push him back against the wall to make room for the both of them. The contest for control went on in the shadows of the bunk, Barry eventually winning by pinning Len to his pillow completely out of breath. He was younger, had loads more energy and endurance, and was learning the benefit of going slow. Len had not prepared himself for the battle he had picked in the yard and Barry was mercilessly smug in letting him know it.

When they hit the boundary line just before the point of no return, Barry backed off. They hadn’t hit lights out yet, they had been watched all day, and there were just some things he didn’t want to have lit up in a spotlight for the whole cell block. He grinned as Len growled at him, quiet and grasping at him but not pushing. They settled down, Barry on his knees curled over Len, their hands tangled together over their heads as they tried to cool off. When it seemed safe to move, Len let go of Barry’s hands and instead caught his face, tugged him in for a deep kiss that Barry could easily have followed right back into Wonderland.

Instead, Len let go, tapped his leg in a silent request to be let up, and he moved to start messing with the upper bunk. Barry sat up and had to make himself look at the wall instead of at Len, given how he was framed between the supports of the bunk beds, from his knees to his chest, prime for an easy attack. He looked over his shoulder at the cell block beyond the bars, more than a little sour to the fact that they had to be in prison, of all places, and couldn’t chase their crazy white rabbit wherever it would lead.

Suddenly his view of the block was obscured by a white blanket instead. _Shit, for real?_

When Len ducked under the top bunk again, Barry was grinning at him. He pointed to the blanket. “Really?”

Len smirked, reached in and pulled at him to drag him off the bed. He sweetened it with a kiss, but still didn’t start things up again. Barry was surprised, off balance, and didn’t know what was coming. But he wasn’t worried about it, either. Len kept his hands in safe territory at Barry’s hips, the thing he did when he was steering more than tugging close.

“Go take care of your city,” Len told him. It was the last thing Barry had expected. He pulled back enough to meet Len eye to eye.

“Wait. Seriously?” he asked. It was easily another two hours before lights out. They still had another bed check. What Len was suggesting was a huge risk. “What if they come around for count?”

Len shrugged it off. “Then I talk through a sheet.”

“What about me though...” Barry’s question trailed off at the dismissal in the smile on Len’s face.

“So I tell them you can't talk right now. They saw us earlier, nobody will risk it.”

At the reminder of Len’s schemes after dinner, Barry felt the blush creep up his face. He had to weigh out which was more important in that moment: his obligations as Flash, or his reputation in prison. The not surprising realization was that, as long as the puppet master pulling the strings on his reputation was Len, Barry didn’t mind so much. He gulped down the complaint and nodded. He started to move to prepare his exit, thought twice about it and moved back to pin Len against the wall again for another kiss. It was just to try to settle his nerves, reassure himself it would work out. Len smacked him on the ass as a hint to leave and Barry finally made himself move away, a grin on his face.

 

****

 

“What is this _bullshit_ that Snart kicked your ass yesterday?” demanded Oliver when Barry showed up at the cortex. He was hours early, Arrow hadn’t gone out to the streets yet, but he apparently wasn’t as easily surprised as Cisco and Caitlin. Caitlin looked like Barry’s arrival had given her a heart attack and Cisco nearly choked on his coffee.

“It wasn’t Len,” Barry said quickly. He held his hands up in a bid for peace. He rolled up the bottom hem of his shirt to show off his stomach. “No bruises now. I’m fine. See?”

All the same, Caitlin seemed to catch up with herself and moved to go give Barry a more hands-on once-over for herself. “Why were you in the infirmary then?”

“Broken arm, busted ribs, and a lot of bruises. Like, a lot,” Barry said. He was being completely honest, because he was pretty sure Cisco could access the infirmary’s records if he wanted to. “But I healed, like usual, and they never got a good reading on any of it. Apparently I was so tired I passed out, and then when the doctor showed up talking about x-rays and stuff, I decked him in the face and they decided not to do anything until I woke up.”

“Jeeze, Barry, that’s harsh,” said Cisco. He was frowning. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I was _passed out_ ,” Barry repeated. “I don’t remember any of it.”

Caitlin scurried off after needles for blood tests. “I told you we couldn’t test the sleep requirements right now. This is not okay.”

Barry rolled his eyes. “Look, it wasn’t my idea of awesome either. If that means _anything_?”

Oliver stood nearby, watching him close. “So who put you in the infirmary to start with?”

“Lewis Snart. The prison rumor mill is that Len did it. We’re kinda trying to feed that right now,” said Barry. He shook his head. “I’m not sure _why_ exactly, other than Len’s afraid of Lewis, so he won’t even finger him on a yard beat-down.”

“Where was he when you were getting the yard beat-down then?” Oliver asked. “I thought you said you could trust him for back-up in there.”

“He was, like, a minute behind them, okay? It’s just his dad’s got at least four guys on a really short leash and Len’s more into improvising when he needs to.”

It was hard to tell if Oliver believed him or not behind the mask, but he didn’t press on it any further. “If Joe’s got resources, we could get you put in isolation...”

“Lewis has resources, too. I’m afraid if I get locked up in isolation, I’ll end up _dead_ ,” said Barry. That was the only thing that made sense, with Lewis constantly hounding him. The only possible outcome he could force there was that Barry would cry for help as a cop and ask to get pulled from general population, which left him without back up and locked in a little unmonitored box, twenty-four/seven. Sitting duck. “And if I end up in ad-sec, what happens if Zoom finds out? It would be a lot easier for him to get his hands on a guard to threaten than any of the guys in the yard.”

“Not to mention, you know, Barry would actually maybe go insane inside a little box all day instead of get to see daylight,” Cisco said. He was really worried about his friend’s sanity.

“I swear, Cisco, I’m _fine_...”

When Caitlin came back, all primed to start taking blood samples, she put a small plastic case in Barry’s hand. He looked at it, confused.

“Waterproof make-up,” she informed him. She knocked the hood off his head as she started poking the tips of her fingers at his skin where she assumed the day before had been bruises, checking elasticity. “So you can stop hiding again. If you were in the infirmary for bruises, you shouldn’t look quite so well-rested.”

Barry actually grinned at her for the genius contribution to the nonsensical chaos that was his daily life lately.

“What about everything else?” Caitlin asked. It was a distraction from the stab in the arm from a needle for a blood sample. “The fidgeting and the shakes you mentioned. How’s your appetite?”

Barry stalled out. He had been staying pretty _busy_ , hadn’t really paid attention to those small things since his mind got caught on to everything else. “Okay, I guess? I haven’t had to pocket as much food... but I spent most of yesterday asleep.”

Caitlin hummed at the news and finished up with the sample. She let the question hang there, let Barry try to think up more to report as she switched to another test sample kit. She held a swab up in front of Barry’s mouth as a hint and Barry dropped into the now pavlovian response of opening his mouth. He was used to the panels on an at least weekly basis since he had woken from his coma, nothing new. He made a face at the taste of the swab as it left behind the plastic flavor but it was otherwise painless science.

“Did you get the panels from last time worked up yet?” Barry asked. Caitlin looked momentarily offended.

“Of course,” she replied.

“So... anything?”

“Well, a few things,” Caitlin said. She frowned, shook her head as she sealed up the samples. She was stalling, since he had asked, which meant that there was definitely something. “Cortisol levels are up. Dopamine, endorphins, adrenaline. Only differences that jumped out really. Aside from the energy storage.”

Odd results reported, she turned to leave the room to take care of the samples and start the next run. Barry tilted his head, trying to puzzle out the results.

“So I’m just a little stressed.”

“Dude, you run into burning buildings and fight monsters _on the regular_ ,” Cisco pointed out. “Prison made your levels _seriously_ spike. It’s like... drastically making you cranky and moody and, I mean, come on, you punched that meta-”

“It’s an abnormal stress load, if it’s stress,” Caitlin translated. Barry frowned over at Cisco.

“I’m not that bad anymore... I’m working on it.”

Not far away, Oliver Queen crossed his arms. The man was far from happy with Barry just then, but Barry had no honest notion what he had done. That combined with Caitlin walking around on eggshells and Cisco’s excessive use of the WTF face amped up on Barry’s paranoia; he was missing something.

“Guys. What?” he asked. “How many times do I have to say I’m _trying_?”

Caitlin offered up a sad, but well-intended smile as she re-entered the room. “And all we can say is, we’re worried anyway. We just don’t know exactly what we’re worried about, or how to fix it.”

“I’m worried about getting my ass kicked, or losing my only backup in that place, or getting outed as Flash, or getting locked up full-time and never sleeping again,” said Barry, each point ticked off on a finger. “Those are kind of my priorities so far.”

“And you’re telling us _everything_?” Oliver asked. Barry looked back at him, a little surprised just as much as guilty. As long as everything except the extracurriculars with Len counted, yeah, he was telling them everything. He raised his hands in a confused shrug as the middle ground on that moral dilemma.

“I think so?”

He couldn’t tell if that answer worked or not. The green hood tilted a little, Oliver rolled his shoulders and uncrossed his arms, swinging them as a way of just getting moving again. He snatched up the bow from where it leaned against the back of Cisco’s computer desk. He looked to Caitlin and then Cisco for confirmation before he settled back on Barry.

“Then suit up. Let’s work.”

*****


	14. Chapter 14

When Barry got back to the cell that morning, he had to figure out how to hide a makeup compact. Hiding contraband in prison wasn’t exactly his forte, and he knew that makeup was the last thing that he or Len wanted tossed in isolation for if it was found. The catch was that Len was asleep when he got back.

Barry sat on the floor beside the bunk, not really wanting to risk waking him up. He had gotten the shoulder from Oliver all night, he didn’t want to add to the list by pissing off Len right from the start. Especially after how they had left things. He noticed the blanket was still up and grinned. Apparently he and Len had spent a good long while going at it. That was going to be all over in the morning. After how things had gone with his friends on the outside that night, though, Barry thought twice. He set the compact on the edge of the bed and moved to pull down the blanket, just in case it had gone unnoticed the night before on Ortega’s rounds.

Once the blanket was untied and tossed on Barry’s bunk, he sat back down on the floor to wait out Len. The man was awake, one eyebrow raised as he toyed with the compact between his fingers.

“Something you wanna share with the class, Barry?” he asked, taunting. Barry rolled his eyes at it and snatched the makeup back. He held it up, waved it a little.

“I need to hide this,” he said. He shoved back the hood of his zip-up sweater and showed off the makeup-applied bruises that Caitlin had helped him with before he left. “It should work to keep some of the suspicion off, right?”

Len reached out and rubbed his thumb across the green-brown shadow across Barry’s face. It apparently didn’t budge because he tried licking his thumb and then attacked it again, Barry dodging belatedly when he realized the prank. The man was tired, and he was playing, and Barry smiled at him for it. Giving up on messing with the hopefully well-set makeup, Len angled over the edge of the bed, still laying down and refusing to wake up. He levered just far enough out that he could point Barry’s attention to the paint-covered air-vent high over the sink. The vent cover was small, plain metal diamond shapes that would not accommodate the size of the compact. Barry frowned at it, waved the compact again.

“It’s too big,” he pointed out. Len flopped back on the bed, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Where have you been for the last few hours?” he asked. It was a leading question and Barry didn’t know where it was going.

“You know where I’ve been. You told me to go,” he replied. Eyes closed as he pretended to go back to sleep, Len nodded.

“How’d you get there?”

_Oh_. Barry closed his eyes, flopped the plastic compact against his forehead for being so completely stupid. “Right.”

Resigned to never hearing the end of that ridiculous mistake, Barry climbed back to his feet and stretched to phase the makeup into the hiding hole behind the airvent. He kicked off his shoes and moved to climb up to his bunk, just to be surprised before he could jump. Len caught a hand around the back of his knee and tugged, making him kneel on the edge of the bed. It was a pretty obvious hint that very effectively changed Barry’s plans for the rest of the morning. He stretched out into the narrow space beside Len as the man drew him in.

“I already took the blanket down,” he pointed out. Len nodded, glanced up to peek out at the still dim cellblock.

Barely whispering as he moved to avenge himself for the way Barry had left him hours earlier, he advised, “So shut up already.”

 

****

 

Thanks to his cellmate, Barry didn’t get to sleep before breakfast. Len had waged an absolute vendetta and Barry was there for it. They settled down not long before count, and Barry had a helluva time making himself presentable again. Len hadn’t touched the makeup on his face once, it was still exactly as Caitlin had left it, and it was a good thing, too. He managed to change clothes and make it to the line to be counted just barely, there would have been no time for fixing makeup. They caught breakfast and then the showers and then Len took pity and let Barry sleep. He slept right through the doors closing after the yard hour was up.

Not long after that though, the gate of their cell opened up again and Ortega came by to collect Len. Another appointment with a lawyer. Barry grumbled about it but he managed not to say anything. He was still bitter about Len’s refusal to help out, but that was something he kept telling himself to worry about later. Once everything was settled with the court and they knew how it would turn out. As long as Laurel figured out how to get him out, Len could be afraid of his dad in peace. They might have to rethink their not-sleeping arrangements if Barry was ordered to serve time, though. He didn’t know if he would hold a grudge on it or not yet. Only time would tell.

Barry woke up again when Len returned. The man didn’t look necessarily happy. It was in how he walked and the tightness of his jaw. Barry leaned up on an elbow to look at him as he walked in.

“How’d it go for you then?” he asked. Len’s eyes narrowed just a little and he only glanced at Barry before dropping down onto the lower bunk.

“Peachy.”

The tone of the response indicated it hadn’t gone well. Barry flopped back to his own pillow to stare at the ceiling not far above his head. It was hard not to take the man’s expression personally, there was just something about Len that made it unlikely he didn’t want to cut someone down for his bad moods. It was the rational kind of observation that made Barry question his own sanity, and the main reason he wouldn’t tell his friends about the level of trust he had placed in Len. It was best to let the bad mood blow over, because so far as Barry had seen, it wouldn’t take long before the man was back to scheming and working to get his way on everything again.

But the buzz it had caused in Barry’s head meant he was awake. So he was going to run on another two hours of sleep for the day. _Great_. Wiping at his eyes, Barry dropped down to the space between the wall and the bunks. He started working through the tai chi movements, modifying them for the cramped quarters. He was careful to only glance at Len, not focus any attention to feed the surly mood.

“Do you want me to talk to Laurel about-”

“Shut up.”

That was a clear negative. Barry didn’t make the offer again, figuring it was safer to stick to the tai chi until the cold front moved past.

 

****

 

Out in the yard that afternoon, Len was still surly. He didn't talk to Barry much, just kept him nearby. The usual traffic happened that Barry didn't really want to know about. The yard had a surprising amount of drug deals for a place that had no real access to the outside world, and cigarettes and other things hard-to-come-by traded hands for cash or other things. That was another level of prison bartering that Barry hoped he wasn't there long enough to understand. The cop in him knew it was a problem and knew it wasn't allowed, but the single solitary human in him knew better than to stick his nose into it. Len kept it away from Barry, that kind of business done out of earshot or around the corner of the bleachers.

During one of those deals, Barry jumped down from the bleachers and went to work out a little. He went through a routine of the tai chi movements and had just started in on push-ups when he saw a familiar and unwelcome crowd headed his way. He was in plain sight of the guard tower, close enough to be safe he thought; he could raise noise and a marksman worth their paycheck could have no trouble hitting exactly what they aimed at. Barry started to climb to his feet but he wasn't observant enough to have caught Lewis’ man who approached from the fenceline. He put a dirty shoe right in the middle of Barry’s back, just below his neck. It was a pretty clear hint.

Lewis Snart crouched down in front of Barry, comfortable and relaxed, not overly violent apparently.

“I thought you broke your arm?” he asked. Barry tensed; he might have _maybe_ forgotten about the broken arm when they found the makeup solution to the bruises problem. And there he was, doing push-ups. No sense in trying to fake it now. Instead, Barry very carefully attempted another push-up despite the man threatening to stand on his neck.

“Nope. My arm’s fine,” he said. “Got my ribs pretty good but they’re okay now. I was mostly just tired.”

Lewis reached down and caught Barry’s chin. He forced him to look up, ruining the effort at exercise. Barry dropped down to his stomach so his neck wasn't suddenly holding so much weight at the angle Lewis wanted his chin at. He smacked the hood off Barry’s head and looked at his face. He saw the “bruises” and narrowed his eyes.

“What is this bullshit?”

Barry had no answers, just held still as the man rubbed at his face. The makeup didn't budge. He owed Caitlin _so much_ for her tricky thinking. As long as the makeup held, there was a chance. Lewis shoved Barry’s face down to the dirt and started reaching for his shirt, which was not helped by the foot pinning him down.

Barry squawked out a protest and forced his way up. He hadn't thought to put on makeup on his ribs, _damnit_. Now he knew better, but he wasn't going to get stripped and manhandled in the yard, either. With his center of gravity off balanced, Barry shoved his first attacker to the ground. Then he was on his feet and putting his back to the fence. Lewis followed him up, grinning like he had just won for losing.

“Aww what's this? Don't want to show off the funny paint on your ribs, huh? Figure if your face doesn't scare them off, it didn't happen, right?” taunted the old man. “And just one word from one of us to the guards about some kinda superhealing metafreak in here and we're not the ones you've gotta worry about anymore. Isn't that right?”

Barry set his jaw, not about to answer that. Lewis didn't expect him to. He closed a few steps, edged closer. “We should sign you up for the upgrade package, private cell, catered meals. The M-block doesn't have bars. I saw it: just these glass and metal boxes, no privacy. No cellmates to hang a sheet with. You can stare at your fellow freak shows all day.”

“I’ll pass,” muttered Barry. He wasn't sure what to do now, as convinced as Lewis was. “There's nothing wrong with me.”

Lewis smiled and lashed out, personally going after Barry and surprising him for it when he had expected one of Lewis’ friends to attack. The man shoved Barry’s face to the fence, held awkwardly until he turned his shoulder into the fence and could turn his head where it was being directed.

“That’s where you belong, isn’t it, huh? Over there.”

Slightly squashed and fighting the urge to fade through the fence, Barry looked through the maze of chain-link outside the yard. There was an open area that lead to the fences in transport unload area, another area for official visitor drop off, and a series of other fences that looked like storage and maintenance areas. They were all smaller than the yard, and some of them were fenced in over the top like batting cages. Except more barbed wire. Usually those areas were empty. This time, though, Barry saw a man in an orange jump suit, wandering the concrete and metal pen, wearing heavy manacles that looked like the meta dampeners that Cisco had designed. Lewis stopped trying to flatten his skull and Barry stared.

“What can you do besides heal, huh? What else will get you tossed in Metaland?” Lewis said, quiet and sneering and right up close.

He meant the Meta holding facility that S.T.A.R. Labs had helped Iron Heights design. It was nothing compared to the dungeons Argus had, but it was not any kind of fun place to be. It wasn't as tall as the other cell blocks because most of the cells needed to be under ground. It was newer construction that had taken over what used to be part of the yard, a completely separate structure. But it was still accessed off that same central hub, like spokes on an oddly box-shaped wheel, still shared the same walled-in exercise yard space for its residents. So far, Barry had avoided that corner of the prison. He needed that to continue.

With his shoulder to the fence, Barry managed to stand up. He didn't want another fight. And the guards in the tower had already started sending up a racket about breaking up a fight in the yard. Given how Barry had put himself in the line of sight of the tower, not Len’s bench, he figured soon enough his protector would show up, too.

“I’m here because I’m human, just like you,” he said to Snart, eye to eye. “In theory anyway. I dunno about you being considered any kind of actual representative of the species. So I’m sorry you’ve got a problem with your kid having friends, but this is getting stupid.”

As the mild insults processed, Barry shoved at Lewis, right in his injured arm. The man stepped back from the pain, surprised at the fight, and Barry took advantage of the space to tackle him. No speed, no super strength, just simple physics. Like a science nerd who knew about leverage and how to make small objects move large ones. Barry charged, caught the bigger man around the ribs, and left him a few feet away from where he started, on the ground and gasping for air.

It broke Barry past the row of Lewis’ brawny friends, got his back off the wall created by the chain link fence. He saw Len and Silver and the usual crowd of sympathizers on their way over to collect him and he backed toward them.

“Leave me the fuck alone, Snart!” Barry ordered. “Crazy old man.”

Len was at his back then, literally, had a hand at his shoulder and was braced to pull Barry behind him if needed. He wasn't happy. He had heard what Barry had said, but that probably wasn't the source of his anger. He raised a hand to wipe a bit of blood off Barry’s temple from the rough edge of the chain-link. He looked back to where Lewis was picking himself up off the ground.

“You heard him, pops,” said Len. “You need to let this go. He's not your problem. Step off.”

“You know that's bull,” Snart said, pointing at Barry. “You know he's lying.”

“What, because he's a cop?” Len shook his head. “Give it up. Not yours. Got it?”

Lewis didn’t appreciate his son taking sides. At least, not the obviously wrong one. Barry wasn’t one to run from a fight but under the circumstances, the only thing keeping him from backing away to higher ground was Len keeping hold of him. He was screwed; Lewis wasn’t going to let it go and Len was going to feed it. One way or another he was determined to get rid of Barry and the metahealing was going to be a problem that fed right into that solution for him. Maybe Laurel could get the case moved up... things were falling apart around Barry and he couldn’t balance everything by himself.

Len waved their attention to the guard tower over their heads, to the shadows of the men talking on their radios and the sniper rifle pointed at their feet. “I’m going inside before it starts raining. Maybe you should stay outside and cool off.”

It wasn’t a declaration of war but it went over about as well. Len served as a human shield between Barry and Lewis’ crew as he finally let Barry walk away.

 

****

 

The cell wasn’t the safest place to go - three walls and one easily blocked off gate - but it was where Barry needed to go. It was away from people. It was away from guards. Things were hot enough now that if he needed to, he would just phase through the wall and be gone, run to Singh and ask for help. It was an imperfect plan, with a lot more problems built in, but it was better than messing around with the officers at Iron Heights. Ortega would help out Joe maybe, but he wouldn’t risk his neck and his job for Barry Allen; maybe the Central City PD would stand up for the Flash if Barry ran out of options.

Len followed Barry back to the cell and entered on his heels.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He sounded actually concerned under the leftover anger. Barry rolled his eyes as he turned on his mercurial friend. He held out his arms to show the dirt and mud on his shirt and pants, and the fake bruise on his face.

“I’m fine,” he said, “Which is a bit of a _problem_ , as it turns out.”

Len watched him, attention split between Barry on one side and the open gate of their cell on the other. “So what do you want to do about it?”

“I haven’t figured it out yet. But your father is a huge freaking pain in the ass. I understand why you shot him now,” Barry grumbled. Len snorted, shook his head, but didn’t say anything. He probably would have done worse if he had ever had the chance. Barry frowned and decided to avoid the subject all together.

He didn’t have much room to pace but he tried to anyway. When he got too close, Len caught him around the waist and pulled him back against him. He was careful about it, didn’t trap Barry, let him keep his hands free, would have let him move away if he wanted to. Barry didn’t know what he wanted. So he stood there and leaned against the small comfort surprisingly offered.

 

*****


	15. Chapter 15

The schedule was starting to blur for Barry. He couldn’t trust Len fully during the day, just because simple logic, and at night he had his friends who acted like they didn’t trust him. He told them about Lewis’ new mission in life to get him transferred to the metaward, but that didn’t make things any better.

Oliver had called Laurel out that night and the Green Arrow and the Black Canary both hit the streets of Central City. They had no news about the case and Caitlin kept bugging Barry about getting enough sleep. His levels were still spiked and he was still punchy. They promised to let him know about any metas but otherwise Barry stayed at the labs and ran on the treadmill, back to learning how to go fast when he wasn’t learning how to go slow. It was a forced lesson in control that nobody ever would have thought about if the situation hadn’t developed as it had.

With the sunlight came more opportunities for attack and Barry was tired of the game. He walked around ready for a fight, not just expecting one but primed for one, tense and coiled for a punch.

“I don't get it, Len,” Barry said, a quiet complaint about something that had been bothering him all day. “What the hell is so great about this place that you’d ever want to come back?”

The question came seemingly out of nowhere as they waited in the yard to see what came of the day’s bad mood. Barry sat on the second bench up on the bleachers and Len had his usual place just one row up from him. And Len narrowed his eyes at the unauthorized effort at prying.

“These are the only benches in the yard that don't have raging douchebags attached,” Len replied with a shrug. “I have standards.”

A step below and straddling the bench, Barry scowled over his shoulder at Len for playing dumb. “No. Iron Heights. Here. Prison.”

Len’s expression didn't change much. He did slide over a little on the bench, shifted just enough to plant one foot on the bench at Barry’s back and the other solidly on the bench between Barry’s knees, fencing him in.

“That’s awful specific and _judgey_ for you, Barry. I am surprised,” Len said. He didn't sound surprised so much as mildly annoyed. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that level of nosy.”

“I’m not being nosy. I’m pissed off. You could be a lot better than this place. You just keep coming back,” returned Barry. He told himself he wasn't pouting but he was probably pouting. Len pressed his leg along Barry’s back, leaned forward to whisper down at him.

“You get that _you’re_ in here, too, right?” he asked. It wasn't exactly an unfair point. He shuffled his book to one hand, rested it at Barry’s shoulder, waved the other hand enough to point at the bleachers they sat on. “So whatever life you’re so proud of has its drawbacks too.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” Barry pointed out. Len quirked up an eyebrow.

“No, I Don't. So tell me then, Barry. _What part_ was asking why I come back to prison? The cop-part that wants to know how to catch the vile reoffenders like myself? How a mastermind works their evil schemes?”

Without taking his hands from the front pocket of his hoodie, Barry shoved at Len’s knee, not to get him to move but, rather, just for the physical movement and contact. “The part that doesn't want to be here. The part that wants a real life again, where things change everyday and... and it's not this stupid planned-out _empty_ time... and where- where you can show your face in public without someone gunning for it. You miss out on everything this way, Lenny. And you don't have to. You shouldn't.”

They had been quiet, not likely to be overheard because nobody cared what the snitch-cop had to say except Len and sometimes Silver. Still leaned close, his surrounding stature oppressive as much as protective, Len looked around just to be sure. Then he apparently took pity on Barry’s frustrated state, let out a sigh.

“So, what, you want to know why I bother getting caught?”

“No, why you bother _risking_ getting caught,” said Barry. “Why you do stuff to chance it. There is _nothing_ worth this.”

Len smiled at him then. “Remember, you’re the only reason I'm still here, Baer. I’m usually gone by now. But _you_ said we can't. Lady Justice _must_ have her day in court.”

“Not my point,” grumbled Barry. Len shrugged.

“ _Prison_ comes with the _career choice_. What I get out of my brief _vacations_ to Iron Heights is usually time to catch up on my reading, for one thing,” said Len. “They have a surprisingly eclectic collection. I've _donated_ a few of them before because I figure I can give back _a little_.”

Barry leaned forward, rested his forehead to Len’s knee. Then started lightly beating his head against the man’s leg because there wasn't a _wall_  available. Len pretended not to notice, even though he intentionally bounced his knee to meet Barry’s efforts.

“And I can catch up on the rumor mill. Get a feel for the way traffic is moving around the area, who’s still available, who’s gone bad, that sort of thing...” Len continued. Forehead rested and still against Len, Barry swiveled his attention just enough to squint up at his friend.

“You’re here on some kind of _recognizance_ mission?” He couldn't have understood that correctly. But Len just grinned and went back to reading the trade paperback in his hands. “Liar.”

“I’m _here_ because _you're_ nosey,” Len corrected. “So stop asking questions you don't want the answers to.”

Barry resumed the _‘thump... thump’_ of his forehead to Len’s knee. Despite the awkward of Barry's mental state just then, Len didn’t push him, seeming to sense he was feeling cornered, but he stuck around. He gave Barry a shove when he got too wound up and needed brought back to reality. And then, later, he kissed him stupid in the shadows of their shared cell. It passed the time and it gave Barry at least the illusion of someone to rely on; he just couldn’t shake the voice in the back of his mind that reminded him to expect a knife in the back some time.

 

****

 

The next fight was after lunch, in the yard again, between the bleachers, with Len right there from the start. It wasn't Lewis’ boys this time. Some other thugs penned the both of them in and wherever he was off in the yard, Lewis didn’t seem to mind that Len got to defend himself this time.

Barry stood beside the bleachers, fidgeting off energy he couldn't run off, as Len held court in his usual spot. One second Barry was reaching to stretch his ankle and the next he was face to face with someone he hadn't met before who stood just behind the small space between the benches.

“Hey, Pretty,” the man said, a distraction from the other two men who showed up in Barry’s field of vision suddenly. They weren't hiding but they were out of Len’s sight between the benches, six feet away and behind him. Barry wasted precious seconds to look to his friend.

“Len... what do I do?” Barry asked. He had a feeling that, unlike at lunch that first day, he wouldn't be able to just walk away without hitting tempers. Len looked over at him, saw the men trying to corner Barry, and tossed his book to the ground. No questions asked.

“Step back, TenK,” Len ordered. It wasn't somebody Barry had been introduced to before, and from the way Len moved to stand between them, he figured there was a reason.

“We heard you don't share. But this ain't your place, Snart. You’re just a _guest_. Just _visiting_ ,” the man returned. He nodded at Barry. “And the new fish ain't _paid rent_.”

“You take that up with me, not him,” said Len. He angled to push Barry back, away from the trap between the bleachers, but their easy exit had already been blocked by one of the thug’s friends. The first man crazy enough to get too close got decked in the jaw and everything spiraled down from there.

It seemed to be a territorial spat. The men kept grabbing for Barry, two of them actually managed to drag him to the ground and away from Len. That didn't go over so great with Captain Cold. Barry had a helluva time trying to keep his feet under him because one of the men kept intentionally going after his knees, would kick or catch his knee to actually pull his stability out from under him as his partner kept Barry distracted by being very much in his face. They got him as far as behind the bleachers before the bulls in the tower started yelling for them to knock it off.

It was distracting for Barry, having to worry about Len on top of having to worry about not using any speed in his own defense. But somehow he managed to use only the movements he had learned from Oliver’s practice routines, and with just a little force and speed behind them they did good work. He added a little vibe to one of the movements and his attacker backed off from the pressure it generated, no actual contact happening.

The move was completely unnoticeable from anyone looking on and still effective. He could merge the Flash’s skills with his own if he just worked on it all a little more. It wasn’t something Barry exactly wanted to practice though, so he hoped that the next few days before the hearing would pass quicker. He actually thought about trying to fake some kind of illness to sleep it off in the infirmary, but that was probably a trick the nurses knew too well for it to work. After the fight was reported, the nurses would have let him in the door, but without the bruises to prove he was hurt, there would be nothing keeping him there.

The report of rifle fire brought the entire yard to a standstill. Cons hit the dirt with their hands behind their heads. Barry looked around, surprised by the noise, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t on the same side as the good guys with the guns. Winded by the fight, Len hit his shoulder and reminded him to put his hands up before the guards swept in. Even though the guards broke up the fight, Len was angry and nowhere near done. He had his own bruises now while Barry still looked nothing like his friend’s condition. They went back to their cell rather than deal with any further attack, Len hanging on Barry’s arm with a vice grip. The walk inside didn’t actually slow Len down at all; he still had his adrenaline up and cornered Barry against the wall across from their bunk to get the fight out of his system in a more peaceful way.

“Wait! You're hurt...” Barry tried to pull Len's attention to the cut along his jaw.

“Don't care,” muttered Len. He was very intent on pulling Barry’s shirt over his head, the fact that Barry still had his hoodie on completely notwithstanding. Barry tried to shove it back down and Len pulled his hands away with a firm and almost childish “ _Nyet_!” The switch to Russian surprised Barry and he gave a quiet laugh, deciding it was actually a lot of fun to get in Len’s way. It was more distracting, almost let them actually play and interact, so Barry started provoking him by countering every effort Len made at getting under his clothes. Len backed off for a second, frustrated, and reassessed. Barry’s smile gave him away and Len tried a new tactic. He stripped out of his own shirt and then stripped the blanket off Barry’s bed to hang instead. The man meant business and Barry was glad to oblige, but Len’s stubborn focus was going to make it a helluva lot of fun in the meantime.

When he turned back to Barry, he waved to indicate his clothes. “Five seconds before you lose your favorite shirt.”

“You're gonna get _blood_ on it, it's ruined already,” Barry replied. Len shrugged and dropped back to his earlier objective.

“Fine. If it’s ruined anyway,” he muttered. He wrestled with Barry for ownership of his hands and after some work, Barry let him win. But only because Len had started biting at his jaw, kisses alternating with the intentional scrape of teeth against his scruffy five o'clock shadow. Len pressed up against him and stretched his arms over his head, trapping Barry’s hands in a tangle of his shirts to pin him where he wanted. His fingers pressed and dug and he got very defensive if Barry moved even an inch from where any part of him was put as Len worked them to distraction.

It was rougher than they’d been before but Barry didn’t exactly complain. It amused him that he and Len got on like rabbits out of boredom for days and it had already graduated to a more intense need. A mutual _expectation_ that the other could take care of whatever bugged him, make it go away, just for a little while. And they didn't have to ask. Len actually let his guard down for once and let Barry take them a little further than they had before, pushed the boundary lines past where they had explored so far.

And it worked to calm them down; they could both still walk and felt relaxed afterward, but higher-level thinking took a little longer to come back online.

 

****

 

They tried the yard again after dinner. Things were a little rocky, everyone in the yard expecting problems. There was an energy to the place, something that even Barry caught onto that said the status quo wasn’t going to hold. The leering and talking and the dangerous catcalls hadn’t stopped since Barry’s first day, maybe got a little quieter, but they had suddenly resumed to full volume. The general population didn’t appreciate Barry’s presence bringing the bulls in to break up a fight. It wasn’t his fault, he was just the unfortunate one in the target sights of both Lewis’ flunkies and the guards, which made it harder for everyone else to live their days undisturbed.

So when the yard emptied at nightfall, Barry got shoved and pushed at a little more than usual as the cattle herded back through the main doors to get back to the cell block. Len was behind him, prevented any kicks to the back of the leg like earlier in the week, so Barry made it to his cell on his own power. No further fights that day.

Barry was unfairly exhausted when he got to S.T.A.R. Labs that night. He let Caitlin do another round of tests, stalling on the realization that he was in so much trouble if he ever got really hurt in the yard squabbles, if the infirmary had a lab. If Caitlin could pick up anomalies in his blood without effort, it would raise eyebrows in the prison lab.

“What do we do if they don't drop my case? Central City can't just permanently borrow Green Arrow,” he asked the lurking Oliver in his green hood. The man seemed in better spirits than he had the day before, as much as Oliver’s moods could ever be sorted out. He was as bad as Len in that department, completely unreadable. Maybe that was how Barry had gotten used to Len so quickly. He chose to blame Oliver, it made him feel better about his poor life choices just then. He then found himself missing Len and knew he was in trouble.

“Laurel said she's working an angle. It should work out,” Oliver said. It sounded like a promise. Barry frowned in the face of Oliver’s optimism.

“But what if it doesn't?”

“That's not the way to think, Barry.”

And Barry didn’t argue it. He just had to keep track of his own mess so that Laurel still had a case to work on by the end of the week.

 

****

 

After the few minor interruptions in the Flash’s return to his training schedule that night, Barry was a little more relaxed when he got back to the cell. He was a runner on a roller-coaster, stop-and-go schedule determined by the forces around him and not his own efforts. It was just as rattly and uneven as any amusement park ride, but Barry didn’t feel very amused. His mind wasn’t quiet enough to let him sleep so he sat on the floor between the lower bunk and the wall, elbows looped around his knees as he considered trying to wear himself out some more with sit-ups or push-ups where he was sure he wouldn’t get snuck up on. The trouble was that he couldn’t make up his mind, so he just sat there and stared out the bars, his focus blurring.

Despite his distracted stillness, Len woke up from his presence.

“Do you ever sleep?” the man wondered aloud. Barry snorted, somewhere between crazy and giving up.

“In theory,” he replied. Len reached out and pat his hair, rubbed light circles on the part of Barry that he could reach. Barry leaned into the touch, rested his shoulder on the edge of the bunk and gave up on the idea of trying to wear himself down any further. The helpful touches worked their way down to his neck and shoulder as he got in easier reach, but Len never sat up or put much effort into moving at all.

“Thanks,” Barry said, quiet. Len didn’t reply, just carried on as he was doing, probably at least half asleep still. It only fed the worries in Barry’s mind.

“What if this isn't temporary?” he asked. Len was still awake enough to hear him, and silence was as much of an answer as anything else Barry knew to expect from him. “If the hearing gets more charges added on and the judge leaves me in here. Are you still gonna stick around? I know you've got plans that don't involve... serving time...”

“A few, yeah,” muttered Len. He still stroked at Barry’s hair, but he seemed a little more aware that he was doing so. Barry leaned in on the touch.

“It's... I can't _walk_ without clearing my name. I can't do what you can. So I guess... what do I gotta do to not get eaten alive? I mean, you've said it's gonna happen and if you’re gonna take off, I’m... gonna need a... clue... or something.”

“Your dad did alright in here,” Len pointed out. “He won people over, in the end.”

“My dad got his ass kicked in here,” Barry replied, not exactly amused. “And he could actually defend himself. Ten years for something he didn't do, Len. From what Laurel said? I’m looking at somewhere around five. And I can't even make it a week.”

Len laughed at that. He tugged at Barry’s hair. “Don't sell yourself short.”

Barry looked over at him, amused by the man’s drowsy amusement with his messy hair but not fully distracted from the mess on his mind.

“Lenny, from the shit that goes on in this place, I’m lucky _you_ haven't sold me for a _pack of cigarettes_. That's kind of my concern here. If I’m stuck here and _you_ leave-”

The hand at his brow tugged tighter as Len angled forward to look Barry in the eye. He was awake after all, and Barry wondered if he had been faking the drowsiness.

“What,” said Barry.

“I’m not giving you up for _cigarettes_ , Baer.” Len seemed to mean that, as much as he ever meant anything. “If there's anything I've learned about places like this, it's that they’re _temporary_. You can walk through the walls, Scarlet, and that's all this place is. Just a bunch of walls. Got it?”

There was a relief from the man’s words, like they finally, maybe, could cut through the loop in Barry’s mind. But Len wasn't exactly the sentimental type, even if Barry admittedly was. He stared back at the intense glare just over the edge of the mattress. “Okay. So not for cigarettes then.”

Len squinted at him. “No. I don't smoke.”

With a shrug, Barry set the challenge out. “So, what then? We talking cash or car parts or what?”

There was a small tick to the corner of Len’s mouth. The look that Barry figured was somewhere between jealousy that he’d had a snappy, snarky comment snatched from right under his nose, and what might maybe have been actual enjoyment of somebody else’s humor. Len scrubbed at Barry’s hair again.

“I like shinier things than that,” he said. “Good news is you can't afford it, either.”

He edged forward enough to kiss Barry on the temple. “Shut up and get some sleep, Baer. I’ll _sell you_ in the morning if you really want me to. Just not until after breakfast.”

Then Len ducked back to his pillow, but he stubbornly still held on to Barry’s hair to play with until he fell asleep again. Because apparently that was his new favorite thing and Len was good at doing what he wanted.

The man was in and out between useful and a pain in the ass, he was trouble and brought Barry a seemingly unending source of stress. But Barry had to remind himself he wasn’t attached. He couldn’t be. They weren’t supposed to have time to get attached. Oliver said things would be fine, Joe said things would work out, Laurel said she was working every angle she could. It was going to hurt when Laurel got him out in a few days though, assuming everything went according to the plan he still knew nothing about.

According to Len, the only reason _he_ stuck around was that he didn’t want to leave Barry to hang on his own in prison, so he should hurry up and get out. It was an inconvenience, that was all.

They weren’t attached. Not when they were cutting things so close.

****


	16. Chapter 16

Barry caught a nap as he sat on the floor beside Len’s bed. He woke up ready to go anyway, the crick in his neck working itself out and healing up like everything else about him did. He made the sleepy mistake of following Len out of the cell, of not keeping his friend at his back on the way down the stairs.

Someone pushed him and he took two more people down with him as he tumbled along the metal staircase. Len had caught the railing and didn’t go down, but he couldn’t figure out who had been the culprit, either. He was left to help the injured get back to their feet before the crowd walked over them. Someday Barry was going to sit down and figure out what had happened to the back of his leg that made it such a weak point without the suit. Caitlin was probably going to kill him for only discovering it now, but it wasn’t like he regularly had people following him around and kicking him in the thigh, super hero or not.

It only got worse as they waited in line for food. The kitchen was minded by trustees with Prison Industries but they were still cons like everybody else in line. So when there was tension in the air, the kitchen wasn't immune. They were a good source for information and drop sites Barry had noticed so far. And when somebody wanted to cause trouble, the best place to start was with anybody in PI. And slowing down the mealtime for a hundred or so convicts was pretty much the best way to guarantee a bunch of pissed off inmates.

Somebody in the kitchen slowed down breakfast by five whole minutes, which somehow for the folks at the back of the line meant an extra half an hour in line. It meant there were a lot of pissed off inmates in the yard.

Caution said to keep Barry under wraps; he had already been targeted, there was no sense provoking the mob. The flip side to that coin was that Barry wouldn't fix anything by hiding. It would just keep building. They found the middle territory and parked on the benches in the yard for awhile, just to keep up appearances.

“So this is what it feels like to be sitting on a powder keg,” Barry muttered. Len quirked an eyebrow, the dangerous smile on his face.

“All we need now is a _match_ ,” he replied. Barry caught his elbow to catch that line of thought before it chased Len off anywhere.

“No. No, we do not need a match. We need the _Non-Smoking section_ ,” said Barry quickly. Len let it go with a nod and kept his morning business quiet. Barry kept the hood of his jacket up and wished for the millionth time that week that he had his phone to play with and calm the nerves. Nervous energy was still energy, stress still built up on the flight-or-fight response, and Barry fidgeted like a kindergartner on the lower bench next to Len’s knee.

Miraculously there was no fight in the yard after breakfast. Barry started to relax on the walk back inside but Len still seemed on edge. Accordingly, Barry kept his eyes open, on alert. It wasn't until they got inside the cellblock and started for the line up to the stairs that the warning signs started up again. Everyone started shoving each other, jumbling up confusion as convicts rubbed shoulders with guards and the guards took offense.

The urge to run for cover was overwhelming but Barry caught Len’s arm so the two of them could shove through as a stronger unit. They got separated when someone ahead of them pushed backward, crashing between them and tripping Len. The next thing Barry knew, he was shoved out of the painted boundary on the floor that kept the center of the block open for the guards. His sudden appearance behind the guards caused a ruckus with the officers, four of them moving out to herd Barry back in line.

While those four went after Barry, two other guards were tackled to the floor by separate bands of convicts seizing on an opportunity. One opportunity like that lead to another opportunity and soon the lines had been abandoned as the center area usually reserved for the guards became a free-for-all brawl.

Barry had three convicts come at him at once and the nearest guard at his shoulder. It was a small battle inside a war and the prison guard didn't know him from any of the other blue-jumpsuits in the room. Barry cheated, used his speed to get between the guard and the next punch that was thrown. He had no idea how the twenty guards in the room and the handful that monitored the gateroom were supposed to handle some hundred or so convicts. They were outnumbered and needed help. Barry could only handle one attack at a time and he wasn't great at that without relying on his speed.

Alarms sounded as the prison went into lockdown. One of the guards finally managed to fire off a shot and half of those around the sound abandoned their fights to instead hit the deck. Barry went down on top of the officer he had been fighting alongside, a shield that would heal if he had to as they tried to sort out what had happened.

The worst possible outcome unfolded as they tried to sort out the chaos. The one officer who had fired off a shot was then surrounded by convicts ready to brawl, and convicts who had already brawled enough to steal the officers’ weapons, and those officers who hadn't yet lost their handguns had them trained on the convicts trying to engage them. It was a multilevel standoff.

A body in a blue jumpsuit fell from one of the narrow walkways in the upper floors of the cellblock, a new match lit on the remaining kegs of flammable material still waiting below. It crashed into one of the officers with a gun and there was a new round of fighting as convicts tried to disarm guards with renewed vengeance. Gunshots echoed around the concrete and metal structure. Barry and the officer with him kept their heads ducked as their attackers split up. One charged for the guard behind Barry as the others went after the shooter not far away. With better odds, Barry used the man’s momentum against him, dragged his elbow into his chest and added just enough vibration to add to the force and knock him flat. Oliver’s few nights of training slow movements were really paying off.

There was still too much going on. Barry and his new officer friend collected another from the floor and tried to move toward the relative safety of the sidelines, away from the chaos. Figuring he was stronger than either of the two guards, Barry climbed under the injured man’s arm to help carry him through the crowd. One of Lewis’ crew spotted him with the two guards and shouted his name. Barry turned quickly, protective more than hopeful, trying to get himself between whoever shouted at him and the guard he carried.

He wasn't fast enough. The man who had yelled at him had a gun. The shout was barely just ahead of the report of the shot. Barry felt the officer’s body jerk and sag against him before he had pivoted more than an inch.

“No!” Barry and both of the guards went down. The injured one tried to keep breathing while his partner and Barry tried to locate the injury to sort out if he could be moved. He was still alive so they had a chance. The fighting around them was a momentarily useful barrier between them and the gunman. All the same, Barry glanced back to judge how much time they had. He looked just in time to see someone tackle Lewis’ goon. With one gun down, Barry was able to worry a little less as he saw to the injured guard. The man had taken a bullet in the back, just at his ribs and close to his side. It made moving him a lot more difficult but not impossible.

As Barry started to pull the man once more to his feet, he felt someone step into his back. At first he thought it was just another fighter but the sudden presence of cold metal at the back of his neck more or less killed that theory. Barry went absolutely still, looking for signs of any warnings from the guard who had been about to help him.

All around there was noise, shouts and physical contact from fights and the random gunshot. The man behind Barry crouched down and started groping along the downed guard’s belt, looking for a gun. He didn't find one, but he found the handcuffs. It was terrifying for Barry as the man was less than careful with the gun at his neck as he got in his space; he had no way of stopping a bullet against his spine from that close.

“Cuff yourself to the dead guy,” said the jerk with the gun. Considering the guard wasn't dead yet, Barry didn't argue, just in case it would keep the convict from investigating at all. It made moving difficult, but Barry was stalling. When the prisoner with the gun stood up again, he grabbed Barry by the ear and pulled him up alongside. That meant dragging the injured guard with him and Barry could only mutter an apology for it that probably wasn't even heard.

Everything had happened quickly, a matter of excruciatingly long minutes for Barry who was used to working so much faster amid crisis. But it wasn't until the man with the gun shoved him over against the wall that Barry was able to look around at the chaos of the cellblock.

From what Barry could tell, most of the guards had fallen back before the big blast doors were locked. He had two with him, and four others were still fighting. Not all the convicts were fighting the guards, some -like Barry- were fighting to protect them. Len and Silver and their friends had formed a wall around two of the guards, the only real scuffle apparently being to keep the guards from trying to defend themselves against the men trying to defend them. Six guards were no match for some two hundred convicts but in an adrenaline spike, most people wouldn't slow down to realize that the threat wasn't from the most obvious small group around them. And Barry couldn't exactly blame them when the smaller fights were still going on in the center of the cellblock, even as a huge crowd gathered around the gate control room and to do everything they could to break past iron grating and inch-thick windows.

Barry looked across the massive hall, not far from where he had spotted Len, and he saw something surprising. Among the few inert bodies on the ground, crowded against the wall and clinging to the outside gate of one of the closed cells, was Lewis Snart. He looked to be having a hard time breathing, mouth opening and closing like a fish, his injured arm crushed against his body to clutch in the general area of his chest. He had been shot the same as the guard from the blood soaking down his shirt.

The sight didn't make Barry feel any better.

“Snart’s down,” Barry said, just loud enough that the man’s flunky might hear him. It was a gamble for a distraction. Maybe the man would care enough to investigate...

“So? Gonna cry about it?” came the disinterested response.

As a distraction tactic, that theory was out. Lewis’ friend was agitated, excited, thrilled even, and had no apparent concern at all for the slow death of the man across the hall. He was a convict with a hard-on for hell and the riot around them was the very definition. It came complete with flaming wads of toilet paper and still-lit cigarettes streaming down from the upper floors on people in the center of the hall. One helpful soul had taken the blanket off their bed, lit the edges, and tossed the whole thing down in a tangled smoky mess.

So much going on, so much noise, everything violent.

Beside Barry, the guard barely conscious and hardly standing on his own power seemed to give up. At the same time, the two losing guards still stuck in the center of the hall lost their fight and were intentionally thrown to the floor. Their handcuffs were pulled from their belts, along with their keys and anything else remotely useful; the sidearms were long gone, in the hands of gloating convicts about to use them to put bullets in the guards’ heads.

Barry needed to run. He needed to intervene. He needed to get the officers to safety and take some of the driving ire out of the riot. But he couldn't without risking the Flash. Everyone there knew who Barry Allen was, thanks to the elder Snart and his active hate-campaign of the last few days. If Barry was to disappear and the Flash were to move in, even the slowest of the prison occupants would connect the dots. Then there was a lot more at stake than just Barry and the Flash. Every arrest the Flash had ever brought about, every closed case, would suddenly be reopened because the Flash was seen as just a dirty cop. And half the rioters inside that prison would potentially hit the streets sooner rather than later, with no one able to drag them back in.

Looking for help, some kind of backup, Barry looked for Len in the crowd again. He found the man already watching him, his attention just as split as Barry's. He looked a lot calmer than most everyone else in the hall, not exactly happy but instead his usual unflappable. The man was in his element, putting in play one of his dozen emergency plans for when things went wrong.

“Snart!” Barry called out to get the man to move, to save a life. It was risky, but his captor was currently too high on the drama to pull the trigger just for Barry adding too the noise. “We had a deal!”

Len seemed to consider the reminder. Then he turned his back on Barry, reached behind him to break up a scuffle with the guards and his crew against the back doors. The next thing Barry realized, the two remaining guards were being dragged to the center of the room to join the ones with their heads on the chopping block.

That made Barry’s new convict captor howl with laughter. Barry just stood there, silent, eyes on Len. That was the opposite of useful. _What the hell was the man doing?_ Four guards knelt in the center of the hall, just waiting for a convict with an itchy trigger finger to take them out.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Len demanded of the gloating cons laughing and playing with the guns around the guards on the floor. The men pointed back toward the control room. Someone had managed to pull back a corner of the steel grate over one of the windows.

“Getting the fuck outta here before long,” came the reply. Barry had to strain to hear them over the noise, which made sense because it looked like Len was having to yell to be heard in the first place.

“You’re gonna need them then,” said Len. “All of the bulls. They don't just let you walk. It takes work.”

“I don't fuckin’ care, _I’ve_ got the gun!”

“And they've got full artillery lined up outside those gates, dumbass,” returned Len. He looked angry now. “I've broken out of more supermax than you've ever seen and you’re gonna tell me you can just walk down the hall with a damn semi-automatic and take on the National Guard?”

That seemed to get through and there was a small conference among the handful of convicts that had claimed the guards. Barry began to think that maybe Len had redirected the threat for a temporary reprieve, that maybe the men had a chance. Then Len pointed at him. “And we’re gonna need him, too. Cops are as good as the guards.”

“Nuhuh, I got him. The fuck should I let these assholes put a bullet in him?” Barry’s captor shouted back. The gun was jammed into his shoulder and he was tugged closer. “You can have the bulls. I got plans.”

Given the rather public claim Len had on his cellmate, that went over with a laugh. The group of rioters lazily guarding their prisoners while the rest caused wanton destruction looked to Len, smug, as the man with the plans was deprived of his apparently favorite prison yard bitch. Barry set his jaw and tried not to pay attention to any of it except for the location of the gun muzzle that wandered freely between his shoulder and his neck as the two men argued. Somehow it only made the bad day more surreal.

The argument ended when Len grabbed the gun from the distracted convict near him and walked the few steps between them to put it to the forehead of the gunman being openly lecherous to Barry. It was so unexpected that none of them really had time to move. Even Barry jumped, nearly dropping his hold on the injured guard he was handcuffed to. Len didn’t notice, his angry glare on the man he looked seconds from killing.

“Fine. How badly d’you want your plans to work out then?”

The man didn’t have a handy answer to that suddenly. Len feinted stepping in to punch him with the butt of the gun and when the man ducked, he reached over and caught the gun that was trained on Barry. He took possession of yet another weapon and backed off out of reach. One weapon was handed off to Silver and the other was pointed at Barry. “Get them in the center of the floor with the others.”

The threat didn’t actually work on Barry; he had been on the other end of guns manned by Leonard Snart too many times and the odds were so far in his favor. The fact that Barry wanted to get the officers together, a group that could conceivably defend themselves better together than apart, prompted him to move. Of the group of them, Barry and the officer who helped him were the most visibly uninjured, so if there was any chance of offering medical care while they waited for whatever the outcome of the riot would be, it would be the two who remained standing. The three limped to join the penned in law enforcement amidst the charred and smoking debris on the floor. It was far from a safe arrangement, in the open as easy targets, but Barry was betting on Len.

 

****


	17. Chapter 17

The effort to overtake the control room didn't go as planned. It took longer. _Hours_ longer. The power was cut out, the only light in the place being the huge skylights in the ceiling. It felt like the air conditioning had been cut before the power, so everything was not only unnaturally hot, it was humid and sweaty. The rage from the riot quieted some as it got on toward dinner and everyone was still locked inside the block. The bad attitudes and the anger got louder while the energy level of the rioters lowered.

Barry was starving and cranky, on top of angry and worried. And he had been sitting still too long. He was still handcuffed to a barely conscious prison guard, which didn't leave a lot of room for movement. The man was thankfully alive, losing blood like a few other people in the room. Everyone was a mess. Barry was covered in blood from supporting the guard and from the little first aid he had been able to help with. The best guess was that the bullet had gone through the man’s side and he would be fine as long as he didn't bleed out; his breathing was still strong so Barry was at least at ease that he wouldn't lose a lung to the riot.

Fidgeting and starting to spark on the handcuffs, Barry tried to stand up and Len smacked the back of his head to order him back down. Len got to walk around and pace. It was half-reflex and half-anger that had Barry smacking back at whatever he could reach of the other man. The retaliation was quick, like Len had been waiting for it. He caught Barry by a handful of his curly hair and dragged him into his leg. It didn't actually hurt as much as it should have and Barry narrowed his eyes at the man. He was putting on a show again. Planning something.

Barry wasn't sure he wanted to participate, but with the way Len had worked it last time, _lack of participation_ was actually participating. So it went this round, too. Barry tolerated the pulling and when Len kissed him, he made sure to wipe it off into his shoulder when he was released. Len caught his arm then and pulled to get him to stand up. Barry rolled his arm to dodge, held up his other arm to show the cuffs.

That put a kink in Len’s plans and he had to think about it. Then he shoved Barry back to the ground, pinning his wrist under under his shoe and the cuffs over the drain along the center of the hall.

“What the-” The report of another gunshot echoed under the rattling of the men still trying to break into the control room. When Len dragged on Barry again, he realized the handcuff chain had been snapped by the shot. Barry had to scramble to his feet on the move, a few of the rioters offering up catcalls and loud cheers as just that little extra incentive. From their perspective, Barry was about to have a bad time. As Len shoved Barry into a cell that had been roughed up so badly it had lost the front gate, Barry figured he was in for some answers at least. He was half right.

“Don't touch the gun,” Len ordered as he tucked it up on a shelf. Barry blinked at him; why would he disarm the one ally he had in the place? A heartbeat later Len shoved him roughly up against the wall, trapped him there with his body and held his hands pinned. The confusing thing for Barry was that both of them knew Barry could have slipped free without hardly trying.

“What the hell is going on-” Barry’s whispered question was silenced with another rough kiss and he let out a strangled squawk in protest. Len hissed at him to shut up.

“How fast can you get out of here and get back?” Len asked, a hurried whisper in his ear. Barry caught on and struggled against him to angle himself further away from the view of those in the center of the hall.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Explosives?”

That was a tall order.

“I was thinking more like _backup_?” Barry whispered back at him. It wasn't a guarantee but he hoped he could find backup. “Thirty seconds, maybe.”

“We don't got all day, Baer.” Len touched his forehead to Barry’s, hiding the small grin behind a more careful kiss. Barry wanted to trust him. When Len eased back half a step, Barry let out a ragged breath. He started to amp up to phase through the wall when there was a large cracking noise from the direction of the control room. It was immediately followed by a racket of cheering and the sound of a small stampede on the concrete.

“ _Shit_ ,” they both said under their breath. Whatever window they had for distraction disappeared with that noise. Barry stilled and Len caught his arm. He messed up Barry’s hair and tried to twist up his bloody shirt a little, rumple him up. The both of them were bloody now, sufficiently mussed. Then Len collected the gun again and dragged Barry from the cell.

“Two fuckin’ seconds, man,” Len complained loudly. He didn't need to bother with the theatrics, everyone was too focused on the stream of prisoners climbing through the broken window to notice. Within a minute all of the cell gates were let out of lock down - except the broken one behind Barry - and the doors to the hall opened. Len tugged Barry closer, shoved him toward the guards. The injured men were getting to their feet, not wanting trampled as more prisoners rushed out into the confusion.

“Let's go!” said one of the convicts babysitting the guards. He grabbed one by the arm, further tearing a torn uniform as the injured man tried to avoid getting rushed out.

“We wait!” Len countered. He pointed to the crowd of men clogging the door in their hurry to leave. “Unless you want to get shot at like they will. Otherwise, you leave with me and the bulls and we head for the library. I can get us out from there.”

“The library?!”

“It's how I got out _last time_ ,” said Len. It was a challenge, a dare for someone to call bullshit. No one did.

And that was how Len took control of twenty riotous prisoners and their hostages. Just like that. All it took was one man with a plan. It might have been amusing to watch if there weren't already bodies on the floor that wouldn't be getting up.

In the confusion created by men running for the doors, Barry took off running. Not the Flash, just Barry Allen, risking his neck to disappear into a crowd. It caused a scuffle back with Len’s crew of misfits and hostages, but Barry was pretty sure the man could handle it.

 

****

 

It was night outside the prison walls, a full moon in the sky and a dozen massive flood lamps setup to accommodate the disadvantage. The individual cell blocks of the prison were locked up behind blast doors, which meant that, really, unless an inmate knew their way around the maintenance tunnels, the escaping crowd had nowhere really to go. Barry figured that was their problem. His concern was the six guards Len was working to keep isolated. His best bet was to head back for Central City, suit up, let Flash save the guards, and then get back. It sounded tiring, but he could do it.

Or, he realized, looking at a rooftop across from the prison, he could take a shortcut. Two familiar shadows stood on the ledge, overlooking the scene in concern. Barry helpfully relocated the both of them to the rooftop overlooking the skylight in to C block. He was lucky he didn't get his head sliced off.

“Barry! Don't sneak!” The Black Canary didn't seem overly fond of the free “flight” over an entire prison. Oliver wasn't much better but he was easily quieted by the amount of blood Barry was wearing.

“I need help,” Barry said before they could ask. “I mean, not me. The guards.”

“Are you hurt?” The Green Arrow asked, establishing the baseline on Barry’s rambling. Barry shook his head.

“There were six guards who got locked in during the riot. I can't get them out without being in two places at once...” Barry tried to explain, very aware of the time slipping by. The Green Arrow nodded and looked down into the raised glass skylight that ran the length of the roof of the block. He pointed the Black Canary to the far end of the roof, closest to the connecting hall system between the blocks. Barry prepared to run back to the first floor, not quite sure how he would explain his reappearance. The Green Arrow solved that for him, catching his shoulder as a hint to stay close.

After a silent count, the Black Canary let loose her cry on the glass panels furthest away from the clustered guards. As the glass shattered and fell, the Green Arrow launched a rappelling rope at a secure surface before grabbing Barry around the ribs and dropping down into the cell block. For all Barry had his meta powers to rely on, Oliver had some undeniable magic tricks of his own as the Green Arrow.

Barry maybe rethought his high opinion of his friend when he was shoved toward the group of convicts and hostages like an errant traitor, fresh off the momentum from the controlled fall from the roof. He scuffed his jaw on the cement when he tripped and shot an annoyed look back at the Green Arrow. The man already had his bow out and aimed at the nearest thug with the gun.

“Looks like you lost one of your crew,” the roughly disguised voice of his friend growled out at the group. “Or was he a hostage?”

Len moved forward to collect Barry before one of the others could. It also cleared up the archer’s line of sight on the other convicts with stolen guns. Green Arrow paid more attention to the part where Len stood behind Barry as a shield and held a gun to his ribs.

“Anyone who wants to run on and join their friends in trying to beat down the gates is free to go,” said the Green Arrow. “You can see the doors are still open. But the guns and the guards stay with me.”

“Yo, Greenball, why we gotta listen to you?” piped up Silver. Barry tried not to react but he felt bad for the beating the young man was likely about to receive. “There's six guns to your little bow and arrow bullshit. Bullets win.”

From the shadows of the walkway along the cells, the Black Canary moved out toward the group. Even though he wasn't in front of her weapon’s directed-range, Barry ducked his head, closed his hands over his ears as a warning to the other hostages. He didn't know if it would work, but they were the only ones not holding guns or knives or pipes to have both hands free.

“Woah, nice outfit,” said Silver, appreciating the woman for the black leather and not the level of danger she posed. When no one showed signs of heeding the Green Arrow’s advice, the woman in black leather took a fighter’s stance, hands curled out to help direct the waves, and let out another disabling scream. Every one of the standing convicts doubled over in pain.

Taking a risk, Barry shoved off from Len’s hold, sped out into the dim light to collect the guns while the men recovered, and he dropped six handguns at the Black Canary’s feet. Like magic, her cry could _conjure weapons_ from her enemies’ hands. Then he slowed down enough to be seen again, much more careful about turning on Len to disarm him, shove him to his knees, and aim a gun at his shoulder in a hint. Fair was fair.

At the same time, Green Arrow adjusted his aim on the bow and let an arrow fly. Barry tracked it easily, saw it hit the locked door of the exit that led directly out to the yard. The double doors erupted into flame at the small explosion, the shock of it blowing open the lock and letting the doors swing open. _Okay, so, the vigilante wasn't above willful property damage, good to know._ The prison was going to need some repair work to hold the low-level trouble of C-black anyway, the doors were just one more small thing.

When Barry looked back to the vigilantes, another arrow was nocked and ready to fly.

“There’s your way out,” the Green Arrow told them. “I suggest you run.”

That was enough for Barry. He dropped the stolen handgun at Oliver’s feet and tried to stay out of the line of sight of an arrow as he moved to help the injured guard to his feet. The man had lost a lot of blood and he seemed to hurt plenty, but he welcomed the help. Barry and the guard cut through the fifteen convicts still trying to sort out their options. The other five officers followed or ran on ahead.

They hit the night and the sirens got louder. The spotlight from the tower swung to the group of officers and a megaphone ordered their hands in the air. But they were outside. They were safe. At the grass, Barry helped the injured officer to his knees like the guns in the tower were demanding.

Barry crashed down gratefully, glad for the fresh air and the hopeful thought that maybe it was over. He felt more than saw Len line up right beside him. No gun, no challenge to the escape plan that would land him right back in handcuffs, no complaint at all. When Barry did glance over at him, Len caught his wrist - the one that didn't already have the busted handcuff chain attached - and trapped them together with another set of stolen handcuffs.

Despite himself, Barry laughed, because he didn't really mind. They were rather literally attached. Barry blamed his amusement on the lack of sleep and didn’t argue it.

He tolerated the rough handling of the National Guardsmen who ran into the empty space of the yard to collect the officers and the few convicts who had run out with them. Most of their former captors had run the other way, not wanting associated with the hostage-taking that had taken place. Those who had tried to keep the officers safe didn’t have the same fear as those who had held guns on them. And then there was Len, apparently not smart enough to be afraid of the repercussions. The handcuffs seemed to indicate he had a backup plan to his backup plan on that issue, too.

Outside the fences, Barry pulled back on the guardsman who escorted him around to safer territory only long enough to make sure the injured prison guard was delivered to proper care. When he was allowed to talk to the EMT, he reported the steps that had already been taken to try to help the guard, and what he figured the injury was. Barry was at a definite disadvantage on the matter given that he usually helped out on autopsy and determining cause of _death_ , which were very different skill-sets than playing field medic.

Other than that one point of obstinance, he was perfectly cooperative and stayed where he was put. Nobody bothered to separate him and Len, the prevailing wisdom apparently siding with Len’s logic that if one was a good guy, the other must be, too. That would probably change if they stuck around long enough for the prison guards to make their reports of events, but Barry at least wasn’t worried about it for the moment.

Barry didn’t get to find out how the group of prison guards came out of the mess. They were moved to safer territory to be looked over by the EMTs and taken to the hospital. Barry and Len, covered in blood as they were, were eventually loaded into the back of a cop car, bound back to the Central City police department for holding there. The prison would take hours if not days to settle out and Barry, for once, was glad he wasn’t one of the guys who could get called in to help sort it all out. He was tired.

When the car got moving, Barry slumped back against the seat and closed his eyes. Barry Allen and the Flash both would be sitting out the Iron Heights riot clean-up in preference to sleep. It was a small matter that the nap only happened because Leonard Snart offered a shoulder as a pillow on the hard, uncomfortable back seat of a police transport.

 

****


	18. Chapter 18

Any prisoner from C-block with court appointments was - once reprocessed and interviewed about the riot - transferred to the county or city lock-up with their case. For Barry and Len, that meant they got to stay at Central City PD once again. They got the corner cell with the bunks and the semi-private bathroom stall. High-class accommodations that Barry would never take for granted again after a week at Iron Heights. He was surprisingly grateful to be back in the city. But he was too tired to fully process the feeling. When he was locked up in a cell again - handcuff free - he collapsed automatically onto the bottom bunk. Len was there, he probably had opinions on the matter, but Barry was too tired to sort him out on it.

“We left the makeup in the vent,” he announced randomly, eyes already closed.

“Yeah,” replied Len’s voice. “And your face is melting again.”

But Barry didn't do anything about it. He slept.

 

****

 

Daylight crept in through the narrow windows along the ceiling by the time Barry woke up. He didn't know how long he had been asleep but it was long enough. He felt caught up. He opened his eyes to find that Len had slept beside him, sitting on the floor. Whether by accident or by Len’s insistence, Barry’s hand curled over the edge of the bed and Len had slouched against the bunk bed frame with the mattress and Barry’s fingers as a pillow. His breathing said he was actually asleep. The noise in the room was quiet but Barry could hear multiple people snoring. It was apparently still early.

And Len had apparently fallen asleep trying to keep watch. Why on earth would he take the floor over the upper bunk? Barry wasn’t sure but he found it endearing. He brushed the back of his fingers over warm skin and fuzzy hair just longer than Len’s usual because of the week on the block. It reminded Barry of the previous morning, when Len put him to sleep so easily. He stilled rather than wake the man up. His thought was too slow as Len peeked up over the edge of the mattress at him. Barry grinned and rubbed at the top of his head then.

“For luck,” he said. Len rolled his eyes. He started pulling himself up off the floor.

“Shove over,” he said, not exactly an order and more like a warning. Barry sat up and edged toward the foot of the bed. A moment later, Len sat beside him, the both of them leaned against the wall behind the bunk, their legs sprawled off the front edge of the mattress. Len’s shoulder tucked up against Barry’s, their legs pressed into each other’s space. It was somehow even then a silent competition to find out who could take up the most of the other’s space. Barry glanced over at him, amused. Len stared at the mattress above them, like he didn’t notice.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” Barry asked. Len shrugged.

“Too much noise,” came the muttered response. Barry looked around at their quiet neighbors, some of them camped out four men to a cell in the center with no more than a single bench to share. Riots really took the energy out of people, Barry figured. His stomach grumbled agreement.

“Too bad this place didn’t come with a kitchen,” Len observed. Barry grinned and nodded. They’d be fed before too long but he didn’t figure he had to point that out. Everyone was still asleep. They could kill time without disturbing anyone and it would distract his stupid speedy metabolism that was a day without food and driving him slightly bonkers. It would use up energy, though, without really replacing any. And Barry knew the cells in the CCPD were monitored. The last thing he or Joe West needed was some smart ass co-worker plastering the bullpen upstairs with security camera footage of Barry making out with a convicted criminal behind bars.

Poking at a hole that had torn in his blue uniform pants, Barry frowned at the realization that he actually missed Iron Heights.

_Crap_.

 

*****

 

A few hours later, after a tiny breakfast, Joe West showed up at the gate of the cell, Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance as his shadows. Barry had cleaned up a little in the sink against the wall of the cell but without soap, what was left of the makeup-bruises looked more like dirt. His white shirt and pants were covered in someone else’s blood and his hair stuck up at odd angles like maybe he had streaked blood in it, too. His friends had seen it before, but his dad looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Barry left Len at the bunk and met Joe at the gate, hands up to forestall the worst of it.

“I’m okay, Joe, I promise...” he said quickly. It didn’t seem to convince him and Joe reached in through the bars to catch Barry by the shoulder, tug him close enough to feel up over his neck and mess up his hair.

“Jesus, Baer. What the hell happened,” he said. Barry smiled at him, struck by a ridiculous gratitude to Joe West for being an actual dad. He remembered too well watching Len’s dad paint a much different picture of fatherhood with the same simple gesture.

“Annual prison bake-sale,” offered Len from over Barry’s shoulder. In the face of Joe’s slow anger, Barry gave a lopsided half-grin.

“Would you believe a prison bake-sale?”

“Ha,” said Joe, not at all amused. “I guess I gotta go home and get you a suit after all. You can't go into court like this.”

Barry went bug-eyed and looked to Laurel. “That's today?”

She nodded. She was still looking him over. She looked past him at where Len still sulked on the lower bunk. He looked a little less messed up, since most of the blood on his clothes had come from brushing up against the blood on Barry’s. He had been in his share of fights during the riot though, and there was a bruise on one side of his face, some blood in the collar of his white shirt that he hadn't fessed up to where it came from. The proof of the long day the day before was all over them.

“I don't think you should change just yet,” Laurel decided. Joe was personally offended.

“I didn't raise my boy to disrespect the courts-”

“No, but the weight behind our entire argument is that Barry doesn't belong behind bars,” she said. She waved to his general state of disarray. “This is just more proof of that. The judge will have to think real hard about making him sit there for long when this is what happens in just a few days.”

Joe wasn't overly keen on the notion, harrumphed as he judged her logic. “He's taking a comb to that mess on his head at least.”

Barry nodded, practicing his most innocent expression at the promise. Behind him, he could practically hear Len rolling his eyes at the fussing.

 

****

 

Sitting in court was intimidating. Barry felt under-dressed as he was walked in, just his prison cargo pants, a bloody shirt, and the hoodie. Everyone else in sight was in a suit, a uniform, or at least business casual. Joe hadn’t been kidding when he’d mentioned raising Barry not to disrespect the courts. The handcuffs were degrading enough, but the messy clothes were almost too much. He slouched a little in his chair, trying to take up as small a space as possible. It was the same judge as before, which was possibly in Barry’s favor because the man seemed to want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The prosecuting attorney, however, wanted nothing of the sort. The list of charges was longer, like Laurel had warned him, and it seemed like he was trying to make each charge count twice by calling it something different the second time around. Barry was only one man, but he was being held personally accountable for the actions of three, either directly through his own actions or through the charges where he was an “accomplice” or “complicit.” He didn’t speak out at any of them, though, let Laurel do the talking for him.

Joe and Iris sat behind the bar, along with Caitlin and Cisco, and Oliver and Felicity. Barry’s moral-support crowd also kept quiet, but the glare on Felicity’s face could probably have scared small children if any had been present.

“And how does the defendant plead to these charges as outlined?” the judge asked Laurel when the list was complete.

“Not guilty, your honor, as before,” Barry’s attorney replied. “While Mr. Allen was there that night, unarmed, and present for those crimes, he did not have the necessary intent to be held for them. He was threatened with the death of innocents if he did not cooperate. Lewis Snart attempted to kill him that night, and nearly every day since. Allen was trapped with no way out of the situation, and his brothers on the police force went after him as a criminal rather than entertain the possibility that one of their own might have been a victim. The defense accordingly maintains their not guilty stance and requests these charges be dropped.”

The judge nodded acceptance but didn’t look convinced. “On what evidence, Ms. Lance?”

“On video evidence still awaiting admittance,” said Laurel. She glanced down at her notes, still considering what was written there. Barry couldn’t see it, but it was causing her some internal debate. She frowned and eventually added, “As well as the revised testimony of Leonard Snart.”

Startled and caught out leaning over in an attempt to read his lawyer’s notes, Barry nearly fell out of his chair when it processed what she had said aloud. He clung to the table edge in front of him and looked up at Laurel in confusion. “What?”

His lawyer shushed him. The prosecution started flipping through their own files.

“I don’t have any revised statements from the other defendants in this matter,” the opposing attorney informed the judge.

“Mr. Snart only recently reversed the statement he had given to the detectives at the time of the crime,” Laurel replied. “He was formerly unwilling to testify. That situation has changed. In light of recent events.”

The judge eyed Barry. “I take it this then has something to do with the riot yesterday?”

Laurel nodded. “Indirectly, yes. Mr. Snart’s testimony counters that offered by his father. He alleges his father’s is a lie, but was not willing to speak against him under duress. Given that Lewis Snart was killed last night, that’s no longer a concern.”

Barry looked around, for some reason expecting some kind of prank. He looked back at Oliver and his friend nodded.

“I told you,” Oliver mouthed. He was silent, but Barry felt off-kilter enough that he swore it had been said loud and clear. He wanted to get back to the cells at the CCPD to personally interrogate the criminal suddenly at the center of his defense case. And in this one instance he was not above moving the interrogation to some place far away and completely unmonitored, even at the risk of facing escape charges, because hanging a sheet would not be enough. Barry got a little lost in his head for a minute thinking about the scheme and he missed some back and forth between Laurel and the judge about the expected content of the testimony. The prosecution said something or other, but all Barry’s brain fully processed was that the word “Objection” was never uttered.

“Bailiff, bring in Mr. Snart, if you would. I’d like to get this matter settled before I send an officer back to the prison yard,” the judge was ordering when Barry’s mind made it back to reality. Barry moved to the edge of his seat, looking around again for the source of the century’s worst prank. Laurel set a hand to his shoulder and gracefully, subtly, eased him back into his chair. Barry looked up at her.

“For real? Is this how this usually goes?” he asked, He really wanted to have a discussion about Len but he figured it wasn’t the time or place to risk being judged really hard for his taste in men. Laurel muttered a “Not exactly...” and tried to hint at him to be quiet. Barry tried to settle down, tried to stop the fidgeting that threatened before it actually hit.

It took a few minutes but Len was actually brought in. He still looked rough, still dirty, bruised, and in bloody clothes like Barry. Even the criminal was getting to rack up the sympathy points with the judge as he was escorted in from the back of the courtroom. He was even sworn in at the witness stand. All the same, Len did not look happy to be there. Barry just stared at him, tried to remind himself to keep his mouth closed since he couldn’t do anything else useful suddenly. His knee bounced and Barry tried to weigh it down with his manacled hands as a minor distraction.

The judge was an odd old duck, very hands-on with his cases apparently, because he wanted to talk to his criminal witness personally.

“Mr. Snart, I’ve been told you wish to revise the statement you gave to the Central City Police Detectives after your arrest. Is this correct?” the judge asked. The expression on the witness’s face then was irritated. He wasn’t great at looking at the judge, a complete contrast to the hundreds of times Barry had seen Len interact with people in the yard or at meals over the last week. Len looked up at Laurel briefly, just long enough to accidentally look at Barry. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, all Barry could hang on to from him before Len found whatever resolve he was looking for. He turned his attention to the judge then.

“Yes, sir,” Len said, voice firm. His voice was a little higher, nasally, defensive. Barry was going to drive himself crazy, listening for the lie, looking for the warning signs of the convict’s acting. 

“What would you like the record to show?” asked the judge. Len’s attention dropped back down to his hands behind the witness box. He took a moment, then sat up a little straighter in his seat.

“My sister and I went to Barry for help,” Len told him. Barry deflated a little as he heard the lie. Len was under oath, and the first words out of his mouth were lies. It stung a little but Barry didn’t say anything. He just listened as the man continued on.

“Lewis Snart had implanted an explosive device in my sister’s neck and, if I didn't help him with the heist, he would kill her. He had already killed an associate of his that way and I knew he would make good on the threat if he was pushed. I thought Barry might be able to help her, because of his work with the police department, but he didn’t have the technology. He took her to friends of his who could help,” Len said. It was more in line with the truth and Barry relaxed a little. Behind Barry, Cisco and Caitlin fidgeted on the uncomfortable benches.

“But Lewis found out I was working with Barry and drafted him into the heist at gunpoint. If he didn't help, Lewis would kill him, and if I did not help, he would kill my sister. We were in the vault... when he found out Barry’s friends helped my sister. That’s when he tried to kill Barry. He, uh, shot at him. At the vault.”

Len went quiet a moment, watching his hands again. Barry didn’t call out the lie. The courtroom waited but nothing else was in the offering so Laurel chanced speaking up. “We have video evidence that corroborates the shooting, your honor. Lewis Snart held two men hostage in that vault, and he lied to the investigators to continue his hold on them.”

The judge nodded acknowledgement but his attention stayed on Len. “Why are you coming forward with this now? Why didn't you say anything about this when asked after the robbery?”

Len shrugged the question off, not exactly dismissive but not challenged by it at all. “Lewis wouldn't allow it. Me or my sister would have been hurt if I said anything he didn’t like. He blamed Barry for getting caught, wanted to see him suffer. So he fingered Barry and the detectives believed him. And now he's dead, in the riot he started, so I think the lies he started can die with him.”

There was a rustle of noise from everyone in the room. Even Barry was surprised. Len definitely had the judge’s attention. “Lewis Snart started the riot?”

The convict nodded from the witness stand. “Yes. He was trying to kill Barry.”

“How do you know this?”

“Half the cellblock knew,” said Len, just barely not rude in his annoyance at the question. Like his word wasn’t good enough. “Lewis had people after Barry every day he was there. It was known he was a cop, might as well have taken out a billboard with that newsflash. He made sure nobody liked him.”

It stood out to Barry that Len seemed to avoid looking at him. The judge glanced over at Barry then, took another long look at the bloody shirt with the torn collar hem not actually hidden by the prison issued hoodie.

“If that was his intent, the riot didn’t seem to work,” Laurel offered up.

“Though there was a drastic effort made, from the looks of the both of you,” the judge replied.

“Barry helped the guards. One of them was shot... Most of the blood isn't his,” Len spoke up again, in the apparent spirit of being helpful. There was a frustrated grumble from the prosecution’s table. The DA conversed briefly with his assistant. The file folder that the pair had been consulting throughout the meeting was tossed rather dismissively to the table in front of them. Laurel noticed; Barry saw the small, dangerous grin usually more at home on Black Canary’s face. She looked from the prosecution's table to the judge.

“Your honor, given that the witness’ statements line up with what my client told the detectives in _his_ original statement...”

With a nod, the judge interrupted her. “I am fully concerned for your client's safety...”

The prosecuting attorney stood up again, obviously annoyed. “Your honor, the State moves to drop charges against Barry Allen.”

And that was it. It was done, as simple as that. Barry looked to Len and saw the man looking back at him. Maybe it was the week’s crazy catching up to him, but Len seemed relieved. Then the bailiff was between them to escort Len to the back again and Barry was all but tackled in his chair by Felicity Smoak dragging him back against the bar so she could hug his neck.

 

****


	19. Chapter 19

It took a few hours to get everything back in order after court that morning. There was paperwork, release forms, property retrievals, all of the boring stuff that Barry would have rather done some other day just so he could go home for a few hours. Instead, he took care of the details and asked Joe to bring him a few things from home.

Then, without even getting in a car, without wasting another minute of his life smelling like sweat and blood and dirt and smoke, Barry went to the locker room there at the precinct that he had been to a hundred times before. And for the first time in over a week, he took a shower without worrying about being attacked by convicts or prison guards.

Home would have been better, but he didn’t want to wait. He had his job back, so he didn’t have to wait. The police department was a place Barry knew well, he needed no guide, he needed no timekeeper following him around and telling him what he could or couldn’t do within the building’s walls. He felt like he had solid ground under his feet again. He still had all of the same problems waiting for him that he’d had a week earlier, like Zoom, not to mention a stack of case files on his desk waiting for his attention. Hours of work. Real life. It had waited for him after all, just an entirely different world that he could go back to fighting his way through again.

The only snag to all of it was the small question of what to do with the surprising character of Leonard Snart.

Once again a free man, and a police investigator, Barry took himself back down to holding to look after his friend. Len had been returned to the same cell, he discovered, and he had the whole thing to himself. Barry stood at the gate and leaned on the bars. Len looked over at him from the upper bunk, something Barry hadn’t seen before.

“Did you get lost?” Len asked. He didn’t move, just stayed flat on his back, staring at the door. Probably because he had the luxury of being lazy. Barry shook his head.

“Nope.”

Len let him stand there, steeping in his awkwardness before he apparently grudgingly dropped down to the ground again. He moved over to the bars and stood a few inches away from them, just out of easy reach. Barry tilted his head, confused but no less curious at the distance. Len met his eyes but he was very physically removed from Barry’s world somehow. It certainly answered Barry’s question even if he wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet.

“I guess that’s it then, huh?” Barry managed to ask. For some reason it didn’t seem right to him. This wasn’t how Barry wanted it to go, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t want their last kiss, last closeness, last genuine connection to have been that rushed grouping in the middle of surviving a riot. It stung a little. Len offered up that sarcastic smile of his.

“Don't get attached, remember?” he said, quiet. It didn’t have the bite it could have considering the front Len was putting up. But Barry couldn’t exactly argue it. That was the arrangement they had made on the inside. It wasn’t a great surprise that Len could be a stickler for commitment details. Other people who had partnered up with Captain Cold had ended up dead, so Barry realized he should be glad he had negotiated the deal he had. Eventually he nodded.

“I think I made a promise I still have to sort out,” he finally said. There was a flash of genuine surprise on Len’s face at that. His shoulder twitched but he stayed rooted to the spot just out of Barry’s easy touch. Then he smiled and at least his voice relaxed again.

“In that case,” he invited. “Get as attached as you want.”

But, after everything else, with their places reestablished on opposite sides of the bars, Barry could tell that Len didn’t believe him.

 

****

 

It was nearly a week before C-Block was reassembled enough to recall all of the prisoners that had been relocated from Iron Heights. In that time, Barry only saw Len once.

It was an accident, and there weren’t any bars between them at the time because Len was on his way back from his hearing. It hadn’t been as complicated as Barry’s, and Laurel hadn’t told Barry about it ahead of time. Neither Laurel or Len had told Barry - until that accidental moment - that Laurel had taken over Len’s case in exchange for his help with Barry’s. The ADA of Star City was a definite upgrade from a public defender and Len hadn’t been stupid enough to pass it up. But he had been perfectly fine keeping the conspiracy from Barry.

They had made their agreements going in and the man was stubborn about honoring them. When Barry made the mistake of setting a hand to Len’s arm outside of the bars, his former prison protector had pulled away, rough and annoyed.

And Barry kept track of the Iron Heights transport schedule after that brief run in.

So, as it happened, Barry knew the day Leonard Snart was due back at Iron Heights to go back to serving time while he awaited sentencing for the vault break-in. The only surviving suspect in the heist, it wasn’t expected that even Laurel could pull off the miracle of getting Len a _Get Out of Jail Free_ pass on it. Since Len had been armed during the heist, the prosecution refused to drop the charges on him, and there was none of the kindness that Barry had been shown. Accordingly, Len wanted to plead guilty and be done with it, so Laurel made sure it was handled without a huge fuss. Nothing Barry could have said would have helped, though Laurel did ask him to write up a character witness appeal for the inevitable sentencing period, on the off chance Len landed a judge who could be swayed by moral character. Barry had started to write something, but he didn’t finish it; he didn’t trust himself to protect the both of them in writing.

Instead, he learned what time the suspect in the case would be loaded into the transport vehicle. He tried to nail down if Len would be moved in a van or in a squad car or in one of the busses. He may have considered switching the departure times around to guarantee that Len ended up in a squad car and not a multi-passenger vehicle, but that would be illegal and Barry Allen knew that wasn’t something he should do.

He may have _mentioned_ it to Cisco Ramon and asked for a favor. But that was just rumor and couldn’t be proven in court.

That’s why it was less than a surprise, nowhere near fate or kismet or any choice of fabricated destiny when the Flash happened to come across a prison transport vehicle bound for Iron Heights with Leonard Snart sitting alone in the back seat. At 65mph on the cruise control and two prison guards in the front seat discussing their bitchy exwives. The Flash had nothing to contribute to their conversation, so he just popped in and out, unseen.

At the same time, on the opposite side of Central City, the Flash was spotted by dozens of witnesses, out for a run on a cloudy winter day. The Green Arrow had been spotted nearby, just to add credence to the sighting. One of the eyewitness reports suggested that the Flash had learned how to blink out of existence and go invisible, like he was some kind of digital hologram instead of a human. Barry didn’t put much stock in the claim.

The _real_ Flash was good, sure, but he wasn’t _that_ good.

 

****

 

Far away from the Iron Heights prison transport sedan with the unnoticed missing prisoner, Barry Allen stood in the forest. It was as close to nowhere as he could get, not knowing exactly what Leonard Snart’s resource pool was. If by some chance Len was completely unable to deal with fresh air and quiet, they could still change plans. Barry watched as his friend sat down on a large rock and used it as a table to sort out the backpack Barry had given him. There was a fresh change of clothes, a few snacks, and a fake ID. And despite Barry’s better sense, the backpack even had some cash hidden in it. Once he had taken inventory, Len put everything away again.

Barry supervised from behind a red cowl, making himself as unreadable as possible.

“Don't make me regret this,” he said. It wasn’t much of a warning, just an actual request. He felt worried, maybe a little cranky. Len hefted the backpack to his shoulder and stood up. He looked Barry in the eye.

“We all have things we're good at,” Len reminded him, sounding nothing like the Leonard Snart most people got to hear. “You and I just happen to be at... opposite ends of the moral spectrum.”

Barry shook his head. “There's good in you. I know it.”

Len seemed amused, but not happy. He was resigned to something. The quiet dragged on before he managed to talk himself into saying whatever was burning at his mind. He stood close to Barry, held his attention to be sure Barry understood him the first time.

“The riot was still my idea, Barry, I just let Lewis think it was his scheme. I let him do it,” he said, no more volume to his tone than there had been since Barry had handed him the backpack. He shrugged his shoulder to escape the weight of the secret he was passing on. “It was the only chance I'd have to get rid of Lewis. And it would only work with you in the middle of it.”

It wasn’t actually a surprise to Barry. He remembered watching Len put on a show around everyone in the prison. He just shrugged it off. It wasn’t important whose idea it was. “And you helped me anyway. You didn’t set me up to be killed when you could have.”

There was a small quirk of a sad smile to Len’s face then. “That's _my_ problem.”

“Sounds like you got attached,” Barry taunted lightly. Len just stared at him for a long minute, like the wheels were turning, like he had to weigh it out. Like maybe Barry was _right_. Len didn’t dismiss it so easily at all.

“Don't let that one get around,” he finally said. “It’ll ruin both of us.”

Barry grinned at him. “Well, sorry about the name then. You’ll probably want to get a new ID. I was faking it when I talked to the guy, never bought a fake ID before, only knew who to talk to because of you anyway. So...”

Eyes narrowed, Len pulled out the new wallet he had been given to check the card. He rolled his eyes and shoved the ID back in his pocket to be forgotten, probably. Barry was entertained, even if he wasn’t. He lifted a hand, waved it back and forth a little.

“Too obvious, huh?” he asked. “Was going for more _allies_ , less _prison bitch_...”

There was actually a spark of amusement when Len looked back at Barry for that. “I think you missed.”

“I think you can live up to it, if you try,” Barry told him. Len held his gaze again.

“I think you're stalling again,” he said. The thing was, neither of them seemed in any kind of a hurry about it. Barry tilted his chin in a grudging nod.

“Maybe. Probably.”

The hesitation dragged on, something more final threatening when they parted company this time. For a split second, Barry wished he hadn’t taken the Flash along on this mission. He wished he hadn’t dragged Len out into the middle of nowhere in the woods. He wished he had found someplace he could do more than stare at the man he knew better than to trust, that they had gotten to make good on their partnership instead of just help each other kill time. He caught himself hoping Len had maybe at least once wished the same nonsensical things.

It was Len who moved first and settled Barry’s mind just a little. The man caught the edge of the mask Barry wore and pushed it back over his head, let his hand rest at the back of his neck. Then he kissed him, the deep tangle for equal control that neither of them could ever figure out who won. He caught at Len’s hip to hold him close for just a moment and the man didn’t pull back or cut him off. It took the breath away and lit up all the right places. _That_ was what Barry wanted. Something that seemed real and actually just _theirs_. Barry got to feel Len smile at him again before they broke apart.

Then Len put a hand to his shoulder and shoved, not much force but enough to make them both move back. The familiar smug grin was on his face as he turned to go his own way again.

“Go away, Barry.”

Barry smiled as he saw the man watching him to be sure he left. It was an easy contest to win, so Barry reset the cowl over his eyes and started to run. He was a flash of light and a wave of wind that pushed at Len. And they were gone.

The momentary sense of accomplishment, the peace he felt being in a good place with someone stupidly important to him faded somewhat quickly as Barry sped back toward Central City. Through the comm in the cowl he heard a crackle. His friends waited for him at S.T.A.R. and he hadn’t muted the mic.

_Crap_.

“Uhh... Barry? What the hell was that?” Cisco wanted to know.

“Was that what- it sounded like a- did you just-” Caitlin was just an awkward tumble of words.

Cisco jumped in again. “Do you _want_ to know what your _suit_ just did?”

“I _told_ you the cortisol and dopamine spikes weren’t from stress,” Felicity’s voice added in.

Oliver wasn’t one to be left out of the opportunity for torture apparently. “Really, Baer? _That_ one?”

There wasn’t much Barry could think up to defend himself. They had the hard facts in front of them and all he had was a bizarrely weird, upside down week. For all Barry knew, he had made everything up that he had felt with Len. That would certainly make his life easier if he had. But he didn’t want to try to make sense of it.

“Don't ask...”

 

 

 

\--*The End*--


	20. Epilogue

The vacation in Iron Heights ended just in time for Barry’s life to somehow hit the rocks. Prison turned out to be easier than dealing with Zoom as the man’s aggressions ramped up and hard truths came to light for everyone. It was a long few weeks after Barry got out and he had never known so much pain. He had been broken and battered and relied on his friends more than ever.

And yet somehow, throughout all of it, he still vividly heard Len’s voice in his head, reminding him it was all a trick of time. It was all temporary. Barry could walk through walls and it would look different on the other side. So, between that, and the work of his friends at the labs and his family at home, Barry kept going. He kept running. He got faster and stronger and kept working.

He still slowed things down sometimes, getting better at the centering Oliver had taught him. And he tried to resume things with Patty. It wasn't a rebound, he told himself, it was something actually healthy for once. She gave him a chance despite his week and a half in Iron Heights, despite their mutual awkward. And it worked out well for Barry. It was a balancing act, it was crazy, but it helped Barry keep moving forward every time he saw some random report about a jewel thief, or a bank heist, or saw somebody on the streets in a winter coat with a fluffy hood.

He did keep track of Len, as a matter of covering his ass at least. He knew when the man ended up back in Iron Heights just three weeks after Barry and his team had broke him out. But Barry didn't go see him. He couldn't risk it. There would be no point. And he was surprised how much it hurt that Len had gone back so soon. It was like he hadn't even tried to stay out of trouble, like he was baiting Barry. But Len didn't call on Laurel that time. He took the public defender. He pled guilty. Like he wanted to serve his time. At least long enough to break out again. So Barry stayed away and let him reclaim his prison throne without a cop as a shadow.

Barry had enough on his plate. It was coming up on Christmas. His family was dealing with the stress that came with having a metahuman hero in it, on top of the new stress of a previously unknown little brother. Joe West had lied to Iris for years, had lied to himself about the same thing, really. He was shook up enough by that. And then Iris’ new little brother turned up, not so little, not really new at much except having a family. And losing his mom at the same time. It sucked. Barry tried to stay positive, but it was not an easy task under the circumstances. At least there were no bars between him and his family, though, and for that he was forever thankful.

So much happened over those few months after Iron Heights. Barry focused on holding his life together. He walked up the steps to the West family home - his home - with Iris and tried to hang on to everything.

“Do you think that he’s gonna be okay?” Iris asked about Joe. And that simple question encompassed everything of the last few months, not just her mother, but definitely her brother. Barry shrugged as he closed the door behind them, dropped his keys in the basket. He rambled out something he hoped was positive and tried to stay out of his head. His family needed him to stay present. No more hiding behind walls or in upside-down, inside out rabbit holes in his memories.

And then Iris gasped. Barry looked up and saw what she had seen first.

There, in the chair beside the fireplace, sat Leonard Snart in his fuzzy coat hood. He hid behind a ridiculous Christmas mug. Barry could smell the chocolate from across the room. He couldn't breathe for a second, fight-or-flight from his instincts as the Flash warring with something a lot weaker and much more Barry Allen as he stared at Len.

“Ho-ho-ho.”

_Oh shit_. Barry’s heart dropped, something like panic pulling his breath shallow. Len just hummed and smiled from behind the mug.

“Cocoa isn't cocoa without the mini marshmallows,” Len announced. He moved to set his mug aside. “And you’re out. I checked.”

That was somehow a tipping point for Barry. Len, in his kitchen, digging through his family’s stuff, without him. It was hurtful, and the hurt had nothing to do with the fact that he knew Len had probably gone hunting the jewelry before he found the kitchen. Full speed ahead, Barry slammed into Len’s space and held him up against the fireplace mantel. The sharp blue eyes took him in with a flare of excitement for just a moment before Len looked over Barry’s shoulder at Iris. There was something - maybe jealousy? - in the familiar eyes when Len glanced back at Barry. He held him up, held him trapped, and Len was relaxed like he was bored. Barry felt the heat, felt his jackrabbit heartbeat under his arms. The calm was a show.

“Are you out of your mind?” Barry growled at him. He jerked at the man in his grasp, trying for anything genuine from the man. Anything real. “Breaking into my home?”

Len's narrowed his eyes at him. “Careful. I made an upgrade to the cold gun. If I release my grip on the handle, the core goes critical.” He nodded toward Iris over Barry’s shoulder. There was the _real_. “You might make it, but she won't.”

Stuck on the next move, Barry grit his teeth and tried to think how he was supposed to get answers out of Len. The man was just full of surprises. He smiled back at Iris.

“Read your article on the disappearing middle class,” he told her, like the conversationalist he was. Barry shoved at him to try to get his attention back.

“Len-” he muttered, ignored. Len continued on.

“Strong point of view. Nice prose.”

“Yeah, well, who needs a Pulitzer when you've got a homicidal maniac’s seal of approval,” returned Iris. Len seemed delighted that she would play back and he caught Barry’s hand to try to pry loose. Barry didn't let him.

“Didn't Barry tell you? I had a rough childhood,” Len told her. The sarcasm between the two was thick and Barry tucked his chin, frustration clear when Iris just made it worse.

“Everyone in this room had a rough childhood,” she told him.

“Why are you here, Snart?” Barry interrupted. Len divided his attention, not quite trusting Iris apparently even if he didn't mind Barry in his space. The bright blue eyes glanced at Barry.

“I caught the Noel Spirit. Wanted to give you a _gift_. Mardon broke Jesse and me out to kill _you_.”

That caught Barry’s attention. He loosened his hold a little and Len stayed exactly where he was. Their eyes locked from up close. Len told the truth.

“Jesse's on board of course. He's _shaking_ with excitement. Me, I'm gonna _pass_.”

Their offer wasn't shiny enough. Barry leaned in on Len then, his chin to the man's shoulder, letting him take a little weight that wasn't a threat. He had to think. He wanted the help Len offered, even though he knew it wouldn't last.

“Why?” Iris asked. “You grow a conscience?”

Barry felt Len shrug at the question, felt his hand tighten around Barry’s wrist .“Mardon wants revenge. Jesse wants chaos. I'm just not invested like they are.”

Iris didn't seem to notice though. “You mean there’s no money in it for you.”

“I was never much for non-profit work,” Len replied. Barry tugged on his jacket again, reclaiming his attention as he stood a little taller, the new information slowly settling and processed. He couldn't keep Len there much longer, he knew.

“If you’re not in with them, then tell me where they are,” he asked. It wasn't a demand or an order, he didn't have the currency to burn with the man on it. Just a friend to a friend, hoping for an honest answer. Len looked at him, eyes bright as the lopsided smug smile took hold.

“Nah. Consider me more of a _Secret Santa_ ,” he said. He tilted his head toward Iris, that flare of something like jealousy visible again. “Besides you and your friends love to solve a good mystery.”

Maybe it was a hint, but Barry saw only the smug wall. They still stood in each other’s space but neither moved back.

“You are so full of it, Snart. I think my friends and I saved your little sister’s life and you still can't stand owing me a marker,” Barry said, calling him out. He fought a hope, tried not to smile. “I hate to break it to you, but that right there is called honor.”

Len smiled back, shrugged it off. He adjusted his jacket, brushed Barry’s hand away from his lapel. They stared at each other a moment, neither of them thinking of Iris just then.

“Go on. Make your pitch,” Len said finally. “I can see you’re just _dying_ to.”

Barry nodded. “Help me stop them.”

It wasn't enough. Barry saw it on Len’s face when he didn't sell it hard enough. There wasn't enough there, not enough shine to keep his attention this time; Barry couldn't afford to buy Len off, either.

“Sorry,” Len told him. “I’m not interested in being a hero.”

Annoyed despite himself, Barry shoved at him, a challenge. A hint that Len had grabbed the wrong answer. Len shoved back, grinning like a man who knew he had already won that match for control. He was baiting Barry just the same. And Barry let himself fall for it. He closed fists around the front of Len’s jacket again and pulled him in. There was a startled squeak from Iris across the room as Barry most definitely caught a homicidal maniac in a voluntary kiss right on the lips in her living room.

They could have lost minutes silently arguing each other for control, who owed who, who helped who if Len stuck around to keep Barry from the death sentence of a couple of actual psychos loose on their city. Barry backed off when he remembered he hadn't stepped back in time. He was still a free man in charge of protecting their city. And Len wasn't his responsibility in it. Quite the opposite, Barry had a responsibility to Patty, and Len had probably done him more than one favor with the visit that night in reminding him of that. He let go and made himself take a step back. Eyes meeting Len’s, he took a breath. Len hadn't changed Barry’s mind on anything, either.

“Well... You’re doing a pretty lousy job of being a villain anymore,” Barry told him. Len shook his head, smiling. He patted Barry on the chest as he stood up from the casual lean against the mantel.

“You have no idea,” was all Len said to that. He caught Barry by the curly hair at his temple and gave a playful shove to clear his path to the kitchen to leave. “Merry Christmas, Baer.”

To Iris’ absolute scandal, Barry stepped out of his way and let him disappear into their kitchen. He didn't even think about following. He stood and stared at the cold fireplace, listening to the near silent sounds in the other room that confirmed the man’s exit. Into the snow, into the winter night. It was cold, Len’s element. The white rabbit disappearing into another wonderland that Barry refused to follow him down to.

“Barry...” Iris asked after what felt like minutes. Barry sighed and scrubbed at his face with both hands. He was in so much trouble for that one. He turned around to offer up a sheepish plea not to be disowned.

“I’m okay. That was just... old stuff...”

“Right...” Iris didn't sound convinced. “That was _Captain Cold_. I mean, he's not that bad for his age but could you do _any worse_...”

Barry cringed. “Let's not tell Joe about this one, alright?”

Iris crossed her arms and hitched a hip to match the very judgemental eyebrow that arched up to her hairline. “Right. Because we are really _great_ about that in this family.”

Barry raised his hands in an appeal for peace.

“Just... please, Iris? I’m just saying... Don't start up some kind of metahuman social column and go blabbing about Captain Cold and Flash-”

Given half a chance, Iris might have killed him for it. “Oh my God Barry! Are you _kidding_ -”

“Maybe you should go make sure your jewelry is all still here,” he said, resigned. Iris narrowed her eyes at him, pointed an accusing finger... and then caved and ran to check the house for missing valuables. Barry just slumped his shoulders and stared at the ceiling. But he couldn't help the smile that crept in once Iris was gone.

Grudgingly listening to the voice in his head that sounded a lot like Oliver, Barry trudged up the stairs to check his room. He didn't have much of resale value that was important to him there, just because he wasn't home much. It was best to check and be sure. But if Len was there to warn him of trouble, he probably hadn't done something to hurt him. It made Barry feel guilty, following the logic that said to check. He did it mostly to make Iris happy, because he didn't want to have to explain to her why he wanted to trust Len.

Barry flicked on the bedroom light and moved to the middle of the room, looked around for signs of meddling. As he predicted, no immediate signs of ransack. Just Barry’s mostly-messy room because he wasn't the tidiest human.

Standing at the foot of his bed, hands on his hips, shoulders slumped, mind distracted, Barry looked up at the full length mirror beside his door. It was just on accident, his attention drawn there more by instinct that something had changed. He stepped closer when he saw it, a laminate ID card stuck between the glass and the wooden frame. A fake driver's license for one Leonard Allen. Barry stared at Len’s picture on the card, laughed a little at the terrible forgery of it. He plucked it from the mirror and flicked at it between his fingers, grinning a little smug at the proof of his law-breaking ways on behalf of Len Snart. Signs of wear and use warped the edges of the card.

Barry rubbed at the bridge of his nose, ridiculously emotional over the ID card. He glanced up to make sure there was nothing more damning on his face than the smile that wouldn’t go away. His bed reflected back at him in the mirror.

His bed that should have been a tangled mess looked like it had been carefully made. Hospital-tight corners tucked in under the comforter. And one pillow missing. Barry stared at it, head tilted, and let out a confused laugh. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand to quiet himself before Iris came to investigate. Barry looked out the bedroom window, idly wondering if he even wanted to know where the pillow had gone. Len had a plan for everything, so somehow trading a fake ID for a pillow didn’t seem all that strange.

 

________********________


End file.
